#a tiny ember in your heart

[crazy-pages]

The thing about Aragorn is that he's actually a really stock fantasy character, but he's usually done as an angsty teenager. The rejection of the heroic destiny and overcoming that is usually an expression of adolescent or young adult anxiety, or a narratively performative rejection of authority to demonstrate one's worthiness. It's a story about coming into the world from a place of powerlessness to a place of immense responsibility. It's a coming of age story.

Aragorn isn't a teenager. Hell he's not even middle-aged by typical human standards, he is old enough to have watched every single human in his life grow old and die. And he grapples everyday with having lived through that side of immortality and knowing that if he doesn't condemn the elf he loves to a mortal death, that she will one day experience that about him. Aragorn isn't even moving from a position of not having responsibility to a position of responsibility, he's out there as a Ranger getting. shit. done. This guy charges all nine ring wraiths with a torch and a mundane blade because that is his godsdamn job description.

Aragorn isn't a kid growing up. He's the veteran World War I officer coming back for World War II.

There's no lesson to be learned in that. There's no moral about accepting responsibility even, he already did that in his role as a Ranger. Even as he rejected the kingship, he never rejected responsibility, he just did it in the way he thought he was best suited to and he was damn good at it. His story is just that of a person who has earned their rest a thousand times over, who is still serving his community anyway, being tasked with enduring a whole new set of trials. Not because he needs to learn something from it, not really. Had Sauron not been coming back and corrupted Denethor, it would have been a fine call to make.

Honestly, even his decision to love with Arwen isn't even really narratively aligned with it. Him taking the crown is an act of selflessness, but asking an elf to love him is incredibly selfish. His decision to seek in the time he has is in a way polar opposite to his decision pick up the burden of leadership. It's not part of his grand narrative lesson, it's just a guy figuring out shit about his personal life even as the world falls apart.

But that's the thing, the world did fall apart. The great war came back, and so it's back onto the front lines for Aragorn. He volunteers, because the kids need him.

Which I think is what makes his story so incredibly moving, and is the source of the something that so many of his analogues in other stories lack. The world and its story isn't built around teaching him a lesson. He's just ... a guy in it. An amazing one, who is desperately needed, but the conflict isn't for him. The world isn't ending so an audience can experience grappling with responsibility vicariously.

It's just talking saying that this is what a great person looks like. The world has those.

And because he doesn't have to hit specific beats of growth, he's allowed to just be a complex and well developed person when he enters the story. So we get this good person, a great person, and he's incredibly fleshed out. So he doesn't just end up being an archetype of greatness, he ends up being a person who is great. But he's also not a character you're supposed to identify with, that's not the purpose of his humanity, those would be the hobbits. Lord of the Rings doesn't say you're supposed to aspire to be Aragorn who becomes a king, it says you're supposed to aspire to be the poor bastards in over their heads who get to go home.

What it says about Aragorn is that when shit gets rough, when things are at their worst? There will be people who are equal to it. That when everything is lost and the best you have left is a suicidal delaying action, there will be someone who can make you believe that it's all worth it.

It's not always true. The young lads all come home in this story too, and that's certainly not what happened for Tolkien. But it's a dream about what should be.

And it's a beautiful dream.

after a lifetime of hearing about aragorn but not reading the books or watching the movies, genuinely nothing could have prepared me for his actual introduction. the hobbits picked this man out of a dumpster. he is a textbook softspoken angst prince and he is covered in dirt and he probably smells so bad. he’s the coolest man alive and is so casual about it. his number one skill is Knowing Where They Are and his number two skill is Having A Horrible Destiny That Torments Him. tolkien got it in one i’m afraid aragorn son of arathorn you are the guy of all time

[phantasmique]

Synopsis: You're pregnant by the King of Curses, but as violent as he is, there might just be some gentleness beneath it all.

Warnings: Mentions of cannibalism; a tiny, tiny dash of blink-and-you'll-miss-it spice; murder (it's sukuna).

Part two.

There were many things to consider as a consort to the King of Curses. His proclivity for violence, his cold indifference towards humanity. He's crushed thousands of lives beneath the palms of his hands, spilt blood and sliced flesh beneath his talons simply because the urge had struck him. He's cut down women just like you, for something as simple as breathing too loudly.

It hardly comes as a surprise whenever you wake in the morning, long before the sun has crested past the horizon in shades of gold and lilac, only to learn that another one of your fellow concubines has fallen to your lord's ire. Slain for reasons that you have longed since elected to ignore. They mattered little in grand scheme of things, and they often came down to small, tedious motives: She took too long to respond to one of his questions, she stuttered when she responded to him, she gazed at him for too long without permission.

You've learned long ago not to care. You've snuffed that part of yourself out. Crushed it underfoot as easily as one would do to a troublesome insect. Empathy will not ensure your survival in the King of Curses courts, and you've done well to persist after all of these years.

To nod when expected, to keep your eyes leveled to the floor unless ordered otherwise, to speak only when spoken to even while the urge to berate him burns at the tip of your tongue like something molten. A hot ember in your mouth, but you refuse to spit it out.

You learned how to read him. To see the subtle ticks and expressions that would show on his face, using them as a guide for his fickle moods. You knew your place. You knew how to survive. And as exhausting as it was, it was manageable. All was well, until it wasn't.

❃ "You're pregnant." It was clipped, blunt, detached. Said so candidly, as though he hadn't said something that had your heart plummeting down into the pit of your stomach like a stone. You had looked up at him then, wide eyed and openly gawking from your place posted at his feet with something like a scoff threating to spill past your lips. Your mind had scrambled, crawling for an explanation, longing for an answer.

That isn't possible. Curses aren't capable of reproducing. You know that he was human once, a long time ago, but that bit of his humanity must have long since perished. Right?

Pregnant. That shouldn't be achievable for you to produce a child with a curse. That had been a small shred of peace, a truth that you had clung to. That you had kept close to your chest, knowing that regardless of how many times he'll take you, carving a place in you for his pleasure, that you'd never have to bear his heir.

You do love your lord, in a twisted sort of way. He isn't merciful, or kind in any capacity. The brutal, corrupt entity that he is. But he does provide a safety that you might not otherwise had, a home and leniency towards your village that others have not been afforded; thus, a grace extended to your family.

Still . . . someone like Sukuna as a father. Was he even capable of such a thing?

It's true that your time of the months was late, but that had been easy to excuse. Your monthly blood had been overdue before. Delayed by stress and anxiety. And with Sukuna as a lover, you would not dare to sleep with another man. Not that you'd want to, anyway.

But surely he was lying. That wasn't possible. You couldn't be pregnant. Not by a curse. Not by him.

Your mouth had opened, lips parting to speak. To gasp or to deny his claim you weren't sure, but he had silenced you before you could even attempt to force a word out. Lazily lifting a single hand while all four of his eyes slipped down to settle on you, glaring red and piercing in the dark of the shrine.

"I wasn't a question." His nose twitched just the slightest, as though he's caught the scent of something odd, but you were certain the there was a smile nudging at the corners of his lips. As though some part of him was pleased.

Your voice was snagged. Dead in your throat. You had to draw in a tight, shaky breath to even attempt to form a sentence. "That's not pos-"

"I can smell it on you." He answered. Still lounging on his throne. Undisturbed while your world crumbled. " It's practically wafting from your pores. Make no mistake woman, you're carrying my heir."

❃ You had expected a swift death after that. There was no way that the King of Curses would ever entertain the notion of a lowly human bearing his offspring. Tainting his blood line. But the killing blow never came. It nearly made your unease worse. You aren't ignorant to his diet. His taste for human flesh. For the blood of women and children. It made you feel like a pig for slaughter. Meat being preserved for a feast. You've always been a prisoner here, a slave to his wiles, but now you were an animal, a brood mare. You've only ever had to try and save your own skin. To worry for your own life, but now you weren't afforded the luxury of selfishness. You had an unborn life growing in your belly and it had terrified you.

❃ But instead of shunning you, Lord Sukuna was showering you with a sense of possessiveness that you have never experienced from him before. Sure, you were used to the marks. The blotches of plum and blue and crimson that he would scatter along the flesh of your neck and breasts, the tender pink lines that he would mar along your skin, branding your hips and thighs from his talons. But his greed extended little beyond that. You were free to wander the courtyard with the other courtesans at your side. Small moments of serenity that you were all given in between your duties. Free to gossip, and read, or nap beneath the Sakura and plum trees; admiring the petals as they fall and glide across the currents. Carried off far past the shrine walls.

Sometimes, you'd imagine that those petals were you.

Now those small blessings are a peace that you are no longer extended. Guards now follow your every move. Stalking behind you closely like shadows. Silent, constant, and close. Always looming. Always there by Sukuna's decree to monitor and scrutinize you.

❃ You were no longer ordered to sit along the steps, posted at his feet like a loyal dog. He had you perched on his lap instead. Cradled on his thighs. Constantly gripped by at least one of his hands in some compacity. He had become keen on holding a palm to your stomach whether he fully realized it or not. Keeping it flat on your abdomen as though he was shielding your unborn child from the world, with the massive height of his body pinned along your back. Keeping you clutched to his chest as he was waiting for a threat to try and snatch you from him.

He'd keep you there for hours, seated between his massive thighs while peasants and aristocrats alike would get on their knees at the base of the throne's steps, bowing on their knees and begging for mercy and exemption from his slaughter. All while you were in something that was suspiciously close to an embrace. Not that you would voice such a thing to him. Not even with the safety of carrying his child offering some sort of immunity. Not at the risk of invoking his anger. But with how tightly he kept you secured in his arms, his chin raised over the crown of your head, there was little else to call it. And you loathed how much you were beginning to find comfort in it.

❃ Of course, he'd always find ways to shatter that sense of delicate security, whether or not he truly meant to. Namely when he had a servant executed. All because the young man had paid you too much attention; foolishly asking you if you needed any assistance navigating the gardens given your "delicate condition" as he had put it, offering his hand for you to take in the means to help you in your steps. All it had taken was for his fingertips to brush along yours.

In second he was there. Living, breathing, rosy cheeks and a kind smile. And then red. A crest of blood fanning out from his neck. And those gentle eyes. A brief flicker of life in them, and then dull. Muted like a set of worn marbles.

His severed head met stone with a heavy thud, rolling and rolling softly until its traction was halted by grass and moss. His body followed only moments later. No longer held up by spirit and blood, it gave beneath its own weight; knees buckling to collapse like a felled tree.

Despite the balmy nature of the breeze, gentle and humid, you felt frozen. As though your veins had been rushed with chilled water. You couldn't breathe as you stared at his body, disconnected and lifeless like a child's toy that's been carelessly broken and discarded.

"Pathetic vermin. He should know better than to touch things that don't belong to him." His shadow stretched over you then, eclipsing you from the light as the moon does the sun. His cursed energy prickled over your skin, seeping past the barrier of your garments to brush over your flesh, locking your limbs in place.

"A simple warning would have sufficed," you mumbled. Forcing your words out past the heavy feeling of your tongue. They feel broken and hushed all at once, but you can't stop looking at the way the rich maroon seeps out across the fresh green of the lawn, mixing with the morning dew.

His voice slips out into your ears then, a low rumble, possessive and unyielding. "I don't do second chances."

❃ You could hardly call a being like Sukuna soft. He was all hard edges. Harsh. From his brash, unyielding attitude to the rigid planes of his body. Taut muscles and serrated talons. Violent teeth that were honed to tear through flesh and snap bone, but it was undeniable that something in him had relented. Turned malleable by the sight of the bump peeking out from the layers of your skirts. Not quite tame, but . . . tolerable.

❃ He had requested - ordered - that you sleep with him in his quarters from that point onward. A command that split through the haze in your skull like the snapping of a neck.

Your brain was still cloudy. Fogged over and drawn blank by an intoxicated thrum, limbs lax and exhausted after he had drawn orgasm after orgasm from your body. Tipping you over the edge and under a rush of pleasure with a sadistic kind of delight; a sharp, wolfish smile had been split across his face.

The mere idea of getting up from your place on his bed and shuffling your way back to your sleeping quarters on wobbling legs, smeared with cum and sweat had seemed horrendous, but you knew what was expected of you. It had been muscle memory when you nudged your body up from the bedding, slipping your legs over the edge as you scanned the floor for your tattered jūnihitoe; ripped and torn in his fervor to have you naked. Discarded somewhere carelessly.

Then a hand was gripping you. Holding you tightly by the nape of your neck as one would scruff an untoward cat. It had a cold dose of fear skirting beneath your flesh, shivering down your spine and locking you in place as easily as the grip on your neck.

"You're to sleep here from now on."

It was firm. Final. No room for you to argue. And you didn't.

❃ It's lead you to an unexpected discovery. The King of Curses can purr. You had hardly believed it when you first heard it. A low, repetitive hum that had roused you from your sleep in the night. A guttural noise right beneath your ear, breaking periodically in between the gentle rise and fall of his chest. It had caught you entirely off guard. So much so, that in the moment, you assumed you were imagining it. A hallucination brought on by sleep. But the longer you stayed awake, forcing your eyes to remain open as you lifted your head to stare at the slumbering King of Curses, it was unmistakable - he was purring.

Like a kitten would. A soft, gentle sound that juxtaposed horrendously with an entity like him. It nearly made you laugh, but you had just enough wit and self-restraint to contain the sound before it could bubble up to the surface.

You aren't certain how long you had remained that way. Slightly propping yourself up to admire him in the dark, tracing over his face as the light of the moon poured into the room, painting over his skin in hues of blue and soft white; painted by the night.

His scowl softens in his sleep. The furrow between his brows fading into something placid, that arrogant grin - more of a snarl, really - now neutral. He almost looks harmless in moments like these. No glinting teeth or glaring, burning eyes. It's here that you can imagine that he isn't a possible threat. That he won't place you between his fangs and bite until there's nothing over left except for scraps and shards of bone.

❃ He's kind in his own way. A thought that you never once expected yourself to have. Not in regard to him, at least. But he tries, in his own way, to be gentle. When walking with him in the past, you were always expected to trail after him by a few paces, never at his side, but now he makes an effort to guide you at his side. Keeping a hand secured to the small of your back so that you don't fall behind. Now he he's forgone that all together and has taken to totting you around all together as easily as if you were made of feathers and cushion.

It's become a chore to move. Your sense of balance has been altered for the worse, thrown off by the weight of your belly that longs to tip you forward. And the swelling of your feet does little to help, smarting and uncomfortable. You're a stranger in your own skin. Sluggish, as though you've been packed in tight and tugged down by stones.

He's rushed you before in the past, glaring down at you from over his shoulder without a shred of sympathy. He appeared as though he was possibly considering in finally smiting you down, inconvenienced by your lumbering as you willed yourself to follow after him down the corridor in a sluggish waddle.

"Walk any slower and you'll truly be testing my patience."

On any other occasion you could have brushed it off. Ignored it as simply as the other comments he's made at you before, but your ability to control your temper has become poor as of late. Turned brittle and weak by the changes in your body. It's made your tongue loose and sharp, and without thinking you had snapped:

"My apologies for my current state, my lord, but this is just as much your doing as it is mine. So unless you intent to assist me, I suggest keeping your comments to yourself."

As soon as you blurted it out and registered the sound of your own voice, you fully expected to have you head struck clean from your shoulders. You always imagined that the last thing you ever see would be the carmine flash of his eyes before your vision went dark.

His eyes are indeed on you. Still observing you from over his shoulder. They narrow, thinning down into a familiar scowl, and you're certain that this is the end of line for you. It's fallen silent. The world drawn to a hush as you count down the seconds till your death. It's involuntary when your hands drift down to cover your stomach, fingernails clinging at the silk as though it might possibly protect your child.

But the killing blow never comes.

"You're a testy thing today. I'll ignore it - just this once." The rumble of his voice is the only warning you get before he's shifting on his feet to face you. A pair of hands fasten around your hips, a single strong arm slipping around to support your spine as you're suddenly lifted from the ground to be held to his chest. It happens so suddenly that it nearly disorients you. A complaint rises up from your chest, but as soon as you register the relief that melts over your feet at the absence of carrying your weight, it has you falling silent. Settling to sit complacent, and at ease in his hold.

❃ He's come to tolerate your defiance. No doubt pardoning you because of the heir you carry. But there were many instances where he would not relent, no matter how stubbornly you tried to remain in your opinions. Namely in regard to the denial of indulging in a very particular craving.

Initially you had thought nothing of it when Masami had tripped. Somehow stumbling on her skirts and collapsing down onto her knees in a nasty fall. You had rushed to her as quickly as you could, some of the other girls following in suit to crowd around her.

She had raised her hands then, facing them up towards her face so that she could inspect the skinned flesh there. Inflamed pink and riddled with small red abrasions that marred the heels of her palms.

Small wounds in the grand scheme of things. Something that you yourself have obtained throughout the years, but not once has the sight of it achieved such a response. You're certain that you could smell the blood beading past the parting of the skin. It wasn't a scent that you've learned to associate with blood, all pungent and iron. This was pleasant. It was rich, enticing, melting along the summer air like something buttered and warm. It made your mouth water. Suddenly your stomach was too hollow. Famished.

Your focus narrowed down, and you couldn't help but to admire how the sunlight glinted delicately along the red. Glittering faintly like flecks of gold on the seeds of a pomegranate. You wondered then, what it would taste like to run your tongue along her palm. To have the blood spread into your mouth.

It wasn't until someone said your name, loud and sharp, that snapped out of your daze. Jerking in place as though you had been stung. It wasn't until you met Masami's stare, her eyes wide and a little panicked that you realized that you had been staring. Focused intently on her wounded hands with the same hunger of a dog eyeing a slab of meat.

Sukuna had found out, of course. He had eyes and ears everywhere, shadows tucked into every corner; and no matter how quietly one might whisper in the amongst themselves, he always manages to hear.

He had shocked you honestly, when he had taken to approaching you about the topic rather than opting have Uraume slip human flesh into your meals. Still, you had refused. This was something that you could not possibly get yourself to budge on. The thought of it made you nauseous, it had your stomach turning despite the hunger pinching at your gut.

Reduced to a complete stranger in your body as the child in your womb altered it into something unrecognizable. Riddling it with twisted urges that made you want to run away from yourself. Haunting you with a hunger that would keep you awake at night, fantasizing about a craving that should make you fall ill. That should have you trembling with dread, and yet your mouth would only water at the thought.

The stare that he had leveled you with unamused. Arresting as it fixed you in place and forced you to still. As motionless as a statue as he looked down his nose at you, all four of his eyes latched onto your form in glints of searing red; a glint of fangs showing past his curled lips.

"Do not forget that it is my child you're carrying. Denying your hunger is only prolonging the inevitable. You'll cave eventually."

And he was correct. He typically dines alone, but since your pregnancy he's taken to having you accompany him for his meals. He had respected your demand that you were only served human food. Though you never missed the almost arrogant way that he would observe you as you plucked rice into your mouth. Like he was relishing in yourself induced suffering. Like he was waiting for you to break. The curiosity in his eyes always present, but like a challenge you tried you hardest not pay attention to the scent of cooked flesh permeating around the dinner table.

Try as you might it wasn't long until you had all but stolen a cut of meat from his meal, cooked rare and bleeding. And like some sort of ravenous animal, you had scoffed it down, clutching it with trembling fingers that shoved it in your mouth quicker than you could fully chew. Unable to pay your guilt, or the delighted expression on his face any mind as the famished pit in your gut finally felt something close to relief.

❃ As much as you love your child, there are times where it's already begun to display too many shared characteristics with their father. Namely the ability to disturb you and ruin your sleep. They get restless in the night; like clockwork, tossing and turning in your belly and battering the inside of your stomach with a near constant stream of kicks.

They weren't even born yet, and already they seemed to be throwing a tantrum. Pitching a fit as though they were demanding to be released.

It would force you awake, keeping your eyes wide open while sleep stung at them, weighing them down with the temptation to slip closed. But as soon as you would begin to nod off, it's as though the baby in your womb knew, and they'd make sure to punish you with a harsh nudge of their little foot. It's a wonder how something so small can deliver such a harsh strike. Enough to have you wincing; the air hissing sharply through your teeth while you glare up ceiling like you might find salvation in the shadows settled there.

"Are you determined to interrupt my sleep, woman? Why do you keep whining and huffing?"

As enticing as you usually find the sound of his voice, the sudden sound of it rumbling across the quiet is only grating. Your annoyance flaring, worn thin by the bout of kicking that's being delivered to the tender stretch of your stomach.

It had your voice cracking out with equal irritation. Unrestrained in your ire. "That's because your child won't stop kicking at me."

You can't stop yourself from turning your head over to glare at him, meeting his scowl, finding the intense red of his eyes in the dark.

"How annoying." He grumbles, face pinching into a peeved grimace. It makes you tempted to try and climb up from the bedding and leave his quarters all together. Perhaps you could take a walk around the estate until the baby settles. Sometimes if you speak to it, or hum lowly in those old lullabies your own mother had sang to you as a child, they calm down. Soothed by the sound of your voice.

It's as though Sukuna can sense your intent, and in a blur, he's gripping you by the torso to tug you up to his chest in a grip that's uncharacteristically gentle. Nestling you against his body as though you could possibly break.

He's done it before and yet it always manages to shock you into silence. To have you fall quiet and motionless lest you break whatever spell has fallen over him.

It makes you wonder if this is what it would feel like to be a rabbit drawn in to slumber with a wolf. Nestled against its fur, expecting a flash of snarling, drooling teeth, but only finding comfort and warmth instead.

"Troublesome, aren't you?"

There's the desire to retort. To give some sort of scathing remark in defense of yourself. To remind him that the child in your belly is very much his doing just as much as it is yours. Then one of his hands is slipping across the swell of your stomach, smoothing over the skin in a gesture that should be too soft for a man like him.

Using the same hands that are covered in blood from slaying thousands, sorcerers, men, women, and children, to cradle where your child rests. It clicks then that he isn't talking to you.

You dare to glance up at him, and it quickly confirms that his attentions are pinned down on your stomach. The expression on his face is tired, exasperated, but you swear that you can see something almost tender melting at the irritation there.

You wince when the baby lands another kick just beneath your belly button, directly where Sukuna's palm sits, as though they can feel the pressure of it.

"Restless, are you?" He muses, caressing his thumb along the bump. "There's plenty of time for all of that later. There will be many a sorcerer for you to torment once you're older, but for now it's time to rest. Let your mother sleep."

It's so conversational, the way he speaks to them. Talking as though they might possibly answer, and with how strange a being like Sukuna is, you truly wouldn't be surprised if he revealed to you that he could communicate with your unborn child in some manner.

You can feel the baby shifting, some part of its body brushing against your stomach as it moves. And act of defiance possibly, and you half expect to receive the sting of another kick, but it never comes.

You're practically holding your breath as you await another strike, yet there's nothing. Only calm. Only the dim sound of your steady breathing and the soothing hush that's fallen over the dark of the room.

Finally, there's peace. The warmth of Sukuna's body seeping into your back like the steam of a hot bath and just as easily it has your limbs unwinding. The weight of sleep engulfing your body, causing your eyes to fall heavy, the lure to slip shut falling over you like the comfort of a blanket.

His voice purrs out then, low and hushed, thrumming along your shoulders while he whispers a delicate command.

"Sleep."

But that time, you're certain he was speaking to you.

[writeriguess]

hiii can i request katsuki x reader where they call each other by their first names for the very first time?

Say It Again

The rooftop was quiet except for the faint hum of the city below, a distant melody of cars, chatter, and the occasional siren. The night sky stretched endlessly above, painted in hues of deep blue and black, speckled with stars that flickered like tiny embers.

You sat beside Bakugo, the cool concrete beneath you barely noticeable as you stretched your legs out. The two of you had ended up here after a long day of training, neither quite ready to return to the dorms just yet.

Bakugo leaned back on his hands, his usual scowl slightly relaxed, though his sharp red eyes remained fixed on the skyline. It was rare to see him like this—silent, still, almost peaceful.

You took a deep breath, the crisp air filling your lungs before exhaling softly. "Tired?" you asked, glancing at him.

He snorted. "Tch. As if. I don’t get tired that easily."

You smiled, already expecting that answer. "Right, right. Pro Hero Bakugo never gets tired."

His lips twitched, as if he was holding back a smirk, but he didn’t say anything.

Silence settled between you again—not awkward, but comfortable. You’d known Bakugo long enough to understand that he wasn’t one for useless conversation. Being able to sit beside him, enjoying the night without the need to fill the air with words, was something you had come to appreciate.

Still, there was something different tonight. A shift in the air between you.

You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, hesitating before you finally spoke.

“…Katsuki.”

The name felt foreign on your tongue, almost strange to say out loud.

Beside you, Bakugo stiffened.

You felt your heart lurch at his reaction. Maybe you shouldn’t have said it. Maybe it was too—

“Say it again.”

His voice was quiet, but there was something intense beneath it.

You swallowed. “…Katsuki.”

His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but you caught it. His gaze snapped to you, and for once, he didn’t try to mask what was in his eyes—shock, confusion, and something else. Something softer.

You bit your lip, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry, I—"

"Don't apologize, dumbass," he muttered, running a hand through his messy blond hair. "It's just… no one's ever called me that. Not like that."

Your brows furrowed. "What do you mean? Your mom, Kirishima, they—"

"They’re different." He exhaled sharply, as if frustrated by his own inability to explain. "They've always called me that. But you… you never have."

He was right. You’d always called him Bakugo, or Blasty, or even just "angry Pomeranian" when you wanted to push his buttons. But his first name? Never. It felt too personal. Too close.

And yet, you had wanted to say it.

You watched him carefully. "Do you… not like it?"

He clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. "Dumbass, if I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have told you to say it again."

A laugh bubbled up in your throat at that, and the tension between you lessened just a little.

"Alright, alright," you teased. "Katsuki."

This time, his ears turned red.

"Shut up," he grumbled, looking away.

You smiled, leaning back against the rooftop railing. It felt nice. Natural, even. Like something had shifted between you in a way that couldn’t be undone.

And then—

"Y/N."

Your heart stopped.

Slowly, you turned to him, eyes wide.

He wasn’t looking at you, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the skyline. But his fingers were curled into fists against his thighs, his shoulders tense.

"Katsuki…" you breathed.

His jaw clenched. "Yeah, yeah. I said it."

You barely heard him over the pounding of your heart. He had never called you by your first name before—not once. It had always been “dumbass,” “extra,” or some other gruff nickname. But now…

"Say it again."

His head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. "The hell? Why?"

You grinned. "Because I like it."

His breath hitched. He looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck. "…Y/N."

The way he said it, so raw, so unguarded, sent warmth flooding through your chest.

"Mm," you hummed, nudging him with your shoulder. "I could get used to that."

"Yeah?" His voice was quieter now.

You nodded, smiling softly. "Yeah."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

"Just don’t expect me to say it all the damn time."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Wouldn’t dream of it, Katsuki."

He groaned, but there was no real annoyance behind it. And even though he looked away, you didn’t miss the small, rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The night stretched on, the stars above twinkling like they approved of whatever had just changed between the two of you.

And neither of you wanted to leave.

[kathaelipwse]

✧ Still Yours | H. Jisung

♡ Pairing: Han Jisung × Chubby!Reader

✧ Word Count: 12,208 words | Reading Time: 45-ish mins

900+ Followers Special ♡

✦ Trope: Second Chance Romance | Ex-Classmates to Lovers | Slow Burn | Popular Jock x Bullied Girl | Non-Idol AU

✧ Warnings: Bullying (verbal abuse, fat-shaming), mentions of physical abuse, toxic family, emotional trauma, drinking, mild suggestiveness, language, angst with comfort, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

♡ Synopsis: Back in high school, she was the chubby outcast—bullied, bruised, and abandoned—while Han Jisung was the untouchable jock who broke hearts and ignored them all… except hers. When life pulled them apart after a brutal misunderstanding, she vowed never to look back. Now, eight years later, she's a successful engineer—independent and guarded. But when fate throws them back together in the most unexpected boardroom, Jisung sees a second chance. And this time, he’s not letting go without a fight. ♡

✦ Author’s Note: For the ones who loved in silence and healed in shadows. This one’s for you. You are seen, and you are enough. ⋆彡

You were a walking paradox, a vibrant ember struggling to glow beneath a thick layer of societal soot. Chubby, they called you, their voices often laced with a disdain that never seemed to dull, each syllable a tiny pinprick against your already tender skin.

Yet, the softness of your frame held a surprising resilience, your cheeks often flushed with a healthy color that belied their cruel pronouncements, a testament to a spirit that refused to be entirely extinguished. Kindness flowed through you like an unseen current, a gentle offering of smiles even to the very faces that contorted with mockery at your approach, a quiet rebellion against the negativity that surrounded you.

And your mind? It was a sharp, agile thing, devouring knowledge with an insatiable hunger, your intelligence a quiet fire that burned brightly in the hushed corners of the library, a stark contrast to the dim view others seemed to have of you. You found solace in the intricate logic of mathematics, the sprawling narratives of classic literature, worlds where your physical form held no bearing on your worth.

But despite these inherent strengths, an invisible weight clung to you, a suffocating shroud woven from the stinging barbs of your classmates. "Hey, look, it's the walking sofa!" someone would bellow down the hallway, their friends erupting in laughter that felt like a physical shove, each jeer chipping away at the fragile foundation of your self-esteem.

"Bet she uses a GPS to find her own feet," another would sneer, their words echoing the insidious voice of self-doubt that sometimes whispered in your own head, a constant reminder of your perceived inadequacy. You learned to flinch inwardly, to brace yourself for the inevitable sting, to become as small and unobtrusive as possible, a shadow trying desperately to blend into the background noise of the school, your gaze fixed on the worn linoleum floor.

Your world had fractured years ago, the sharp edges never quite fitting back together after the sudden, gaping loss of your father. He had been your anchor, a warm, comforting presence whose booming laughter still echoed faintly in the quiet corners of your memory, a phantom sound that sometimes brought a bittersweet ache to your chest.

Now, he was a faded photograph on your bedside table, a silent observer of your increasingly solitary existence, a bittersweet reminder of a love that felt both impossibly distant and achingly present. Your mother, lost in her own labyrinth of grief, eventually found a fragile sort of peace in the arms of another man.

His arrival brought a polite, almost sterile atmosphere to your home, a subtle distance that grew between you and the woman who had once been your sun and moon. "He's a good man," she'd said once, her voice flat, devoid of the warmth you remembered, her eyes focused on some distant point. "He'll take care of us." But 'us' never truly included you in the same way anymore; you felt like a tolerated guest in a life that had moved on without you.

The real chill, however, the bone-deep, relentless cold, emanated from your aunt. After your mother's remarriage, you were sent to live with her, a woman whose lips seemed permanently pursed in disapproval, whose voice was a constant, low hum of criticism that eroded your spirit.

Her house was a place where joy seemed to wither and die, where every corner held the unspoken accusation of your inadequacy. "Are you going back for seconds?" she'd snap, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as you reached for another small portion of dinner. "Honestly, child, have you no self-control?

You'll never find a nice boy looking like that. You'll be alone forever." Meals were silent, tense affairs, punctuated only by the clinking of silverware and her pointed sighs. Chores were endless, thankless, and any small spark of happiness you managed to ignite was quickly doused by her sharp tongue and colder-than-ice gaze.

"Don't slouch," she'd bark across the living room, her voice like the crack of a whip. "Sit up straight. You look like a sack of potatoes. Honestly, the way you carry yourself…" Your home life became a toxic swamp of neglect and emotional abuse, a secret shame you carried like a lead weight in your stomach, a burden that made your steps heavy and your spirit weary.

"Honestly," she'd mutter under her breath as you did the dishes, the clatter of plates a poor substitute for conversation, "your mother always said you were a clumsy one. Just like her."

Across the bustling, often chaotic landscape of your high school moved Han Jisung. He was a figure carved from a different kind of coldness – a detached, almost arrogant aura that seemed to ripple outwards, creating a respectful distance.

A star athlete, his movements on the basketball court fluid and mesmerizing, he was the undisputed object of countless girls' affections. Their whispered yearnings followed him down the hallways like a persistent, hopeful breeze. "Did you see the way Jisung looked at me during practice?" you'd overhear one girl sigh to her friend, her voice dreamy.

"I swear, he totally wants to ask me to the homecoming dance." Yet, he remained aloof, a polite but firm "I'm not interested" the standard response to any lingering glances or hesitant advances. "Sorry," he'd say, his voice cool but not unkind, his gaze already drifting away, "I'm just really focused on the upcoming tournament. Got to keep my head in the game."

His eyes, sharp and intelligent, often held a distant amusement, a subtle disdain for the petty dramas and hormonal surges that defined the high school experience. "Honestly," he once said to his friend, a slight smirk playing on his lips as a group of girls giggled nearby, their attention clearly fixed on him, "they're all so… transparent." He was a world away from your own, a dazzling supernova you never dared to gaze at directly, knowing you were a mere speck of dust in his radiant orbit.

Yet, unbeknownst to you, in those fleeting moments between classes, or during the forced proximity of shared assemblies, his gaze would sometimes flick towards you. It wasn't a look of mockery or pity, but something… else. A quiet, almost clinical observation.

He noticed the way your shoulders would instinctively hunch when a group of popular kids approached, their laughter echoing in the confined space, the barely perceptible flinch in your eyes when the school bell shrieked through the corridors, the determined set of your jaw as you navigated the crowded lunchroom, your tray held like a fragile shield against the judging eyes.

He saw the way your fingers, often ink-stained from hours spent lost in the pages of a book, your refuge from the harsh realities of your life, would nervously twist the hem of your oversized sweater. Once, during a particularly brutal round of hallway taunts aimed your way, the words like sharp stones thrown with intent, he had paused, his usual easy stride faltering for a split second before he continued on, his expression unreadable, a flicker of something unidentifiable in his dark eyes.

One particularly bleak, rain-swept afternoon, the meager grocery money, carefully counted out and clutched in your sweaty palm, the lifeline that would hopefully stave off your aunt's wrath for another week, was snatched from you just outside the familiar fluorescent glow of the convenience store.

A gaggle of giggling, impeccably dressed girls, their faces bright with a casual cruelty that chilled you to the bone, had surrounded you like a pack of predators. "Well, well, well, look what we have here," the ringleader had sneered, her perfectly manicured nails reaching for your trembling hand.

"Going on a little snack run, tubby? Maybe stocking up for winter hibernation?" "Leave me alone," you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible above the drumming rain, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

"Oh, are you going to cry?" another one taunted, her eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "Maybe a few tears will wash away some of that… extra baggage." "What's this, enough for a diet soda?" the first girl said, snatching the crumpled bills from your grasp.

"Maybe you should try skipping a few meals, fatty," another added, their laughter echoing the hollowness that had become a constant companion in your stomach. "Yeah," a third chimed in, her voice dripping with false concern, "think of it as us doing you a favor. Helping you reach your… goals."

"Just give it back," you pleaded, tears welling in your eyes, blurring their cruel faces. "It's all I have. My aunt…" They just laughed harder, their cruelty a sharp, physical pain. "Too slow," the ringleader said, tucking the money into her designer bag with a smug smile. "Maybe next time you'll learn to run faster. Or maybe just stay home."

Fear, cold and sharp as shards of glass, pierced through you, rendering your legs heavy and unresponsive. Home, usually a place of quiet dread, now loomed like a monstrous shadow in the downpour. Without the groceries, without the flimsy excuse of running an errand, the prospect of facing your aunt's wrath was unbearable.

"Where have you been?" she'd likely snap, her eyes narrowing with suspicion, her voice laced with impatience. "And where are the groceries I asked for? Don't tell me you've dawdled again." You could already hear the accusations, the bitter recriminations, the inevitable lecture about your worthlessness.

You found yourself huddled beneath the inadequate shelter of a dusty shop awning, the relentless rain plastering strands of hair to your forehead, tears blurring your vision as they mingled with the raindrops tracing paths down your cheeks. "Great," you muttered to yourself, the despair a heavy weight in your chest.

"Just great. Now what?" You were stranded, caught in the cruel intersection of teenage malice and a desolate home life, with nowhere safe to turn. "What am I going to do?" you whispered into the storm, the question a pathetic plea carried away by the wind.

Then, through the grey curtain of rain, a figure emerged. Tall and lean, with the unmistakable swagger of the school's star athlete, Han Jisung paused beside you. His expensive black umbrella, large enough to shelter two, dripped steadily at the edges, a stark contrast to the cheap, flimsy one you usually carried.

He didn't say a word, didn't offer a platitude or a condescending remark. He simply extended the umbrella towards you, the silent gesture a stark contrast to the cacophony of cruel words you had just endured. For a fleeting moment, your fingers brushed against his as you hesitantly took the offered shelter, a surprising jolt of warmth in the pervasive cold.

He turned and walked away, disappearing back into the downpour as quickly and silently as he had appeared. "Hey," you called out after him, a confused question forming on your lips, a desperate need to understand his unexpected kindness, but he was already gone, swallowed by the rain.

Confused, a strange cocktail of gratitude and bewilderment churning within you, you watched his retreating figure. Why would he do that? you wondered, clutching the smooth handle of the umbrella, its expensive fabric a stark contrast to your own worn coat.

Just as you began to think it had been a fleeting act of detached charity, a moment of pity from someone who existed in a completely different stratosphere, he reappeared. This time, he held a small, clear plastic bag clutched in his hand. He stopped directly in front of you.

"Here," he said, his voice surprisingly quiet, almost a murmur, his gaze flicking around as if he didn't want to be seen. He wordlessly pressed the bag into your hand. Inside, nestled against the damp plastic, were crisp twenty-dollar bills.

His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes flickered over your face briefly, a fleeting acknowledgment of your distress. He simply nodded, a curt, almost imperceptible movement of his head. "Take it," he added, his gaze direct for a fleeting second, a hint of something unreadable in their depths. And then he turned and walked away again, melting back into the rainy afternoon, leaving you standing beneath his expensive umbrella, the unexpected kindness a heavy, almost unbelievable weight in your hand.

Your lips parted in stunned silence, a soft, disbelieving "thank you" escaping into the drumming rain, a whisper lost in the downpour. The twenty dollars felt like more than just money; it felt like a lifeline, a tiny, unexpected crack of light in the overwhelming darkness.

"Thank you," you repeated, a little louder this time, clutching the bag tightly, even though he was already gone. The warmth of the unexpected gesture spread through the chill of the rain, a small seed of hope planted in the barren landscape of your day. You wondered, just for a moment, if maybe, just maybe, you weren't entirely invisible after all.

The sleek, black umbrella, a stark contrast to the cheap, floral one you usually carried, became an unspoken, tangible link between your vastly different orbits. It stood sentinel in your locker, a silent testament to an act of unexpected kindness that replayed in your mind like a recurring dream.

The twenty dollars, carefully and sparingly used to replenish your stolen grocery money, felt like more than just currency; it was a symbol of a hand reaching out in the darkness, a small spark of hope in the overwhelming gloom. A hesitant "thank you" the next day in the crowded hallway, your voice barely a rustle of sound, was met with a curt nod from Jisung, his usual guarded expression firmly in place, his gaze already sweeping over the bustling student body. But something had subtly shifted, a nearly imperceptible crack in the icy façade he usually presented to the world.

It began with shared study sessions in the hushed sanctuary of the library. He never explicitly invited you, never uttered a direct request. Instead, he would simply appear at your usual corner table, a formidable stack of advanced calculus textbooks and meticulously organized notes in hand.

You, initially wary of his continued presence, found a surprising, almost unsettling comfort in his focused silence. He possessed an unexpected patience when you wrestled with a particularly convoluted equation, explaining complex concepts with a quiet clarity that your often-impatient teachers lacked.

"Think of it like this," he'd say, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sketched diagrams on scrap paper, his voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the quiet hum of the library. You, in turn, would sometimes help him navigate the labyrinthine prose of English literature, your insightful interpretations of symbolism and theme offering a perspective he, with his more analytical mind, hadn't considered.

"That's… actually a really interesting way to look at it," he'd admit, a flicker of genuine intellectual curiosity in his dark eyes. These sessions were mostly silent, punctuated by the rustling of turning pages and the soft scratching of pens against paper, but a fragile, unspoken camaraderie began to bloom in the shared pursuit of knowledge, a quiet understanding passing between you over highlighted passages and solved problems.

Then came the late-night texts, the glow of your phone screen illuminating your face in the darkness of your small room. It started with a simple, utilitarian "Need help with the assignment?" from his number, a question that sent a jolt of surprised apprehension through you.

Hesitantly, you replied with a terse "Maybe," and soon, short, academic queries about formulas and literary devices morphed into slightly longer exchanges about favorite books (his surprisingly leaning towards classic sci-fi, yours towards poignant coming-of-age stories), obscure indie music, and even, occasionally, fleeting, carefully worded glimpses into the mundane details of your respective days.

His texts were often clipped, punctuated by emojis that seemed oddly out of character for the school's notoriously aloof jock – a surprisingly expressive thumbs-up, a thoughtful pondering face – but there was a consistency to them, a quiet checking-in that you found yourself looking forward to, a small beacon in the often-lonely expanse of your evenings.

He stumbled upon your deep-seated passion for retro video games during one of your brief study breaks in the library, when you were idly scrolling through an old emulator on your battered phone, a nostalgic smile softening your features as pixelated spaceships whizzed across the screen.

To your surprise, a flicker of recognition crossed his usually impassive face. "That's 'Galactic Gladiators', right?" he'd asked, leaning closer, a genuine spark of interest momentarily eclipsing his usual reserve. "My older brother used to be obsessed with that game. I remember watching him play for hours."

This shared, unexpected connection, a bridge built on 8-bit nostalgia, led to clandestine gaming sessions at his sprawling, modern home on weekends. His house, with its sleek furniture and panoramic city views, was a stark, almost intimidating contrast to your cramped, perpetually shadowed one, but in the dimly lit, surprisingly comfortable game room, surrounded by the hypnotic glow of multiple screens and the cheerful cacophony of digital sound effects, you found a strange, unexpected sense of belonging.

He was surprisingly competitive, his fingers flying across the controller with practiced ease, but never condescending, and your laughter, a sound you rarely heard yourself make, would sometimes bubble up and fill the room, a light, joyful sound that felt foreign yet wonderfully liberating. "Nice move!" he'd grudgingly admit after you executed a particularly skillful maneuver, a rare smile gracing his lips.

Throughout these increasingly frequent interactions, Jisung remained a keen, almost unnervingly perceptive, silent observer. He noticed the almost imperceptible tremor in your hands when someone raised their voice, even in a casual classroom discussion.

He saw the fleeting shadow of anxiety that flickered in your eyes when he accidentally brushed your arm in the crowded hallway. He learned your instinctive aversion to sudden loud noises, the way your gaze would dart nervously towards any raised hand in a classroom, as if anticipating a blow.

He pieced together the fragmented clues of your unspoken traumas, the subtle anxieties that clung to you like a second skin, an invisible weight you carried in the slump of your shoulders. He never pried, never asked directly about your strained home life or the cruelties you endured within the school's social hierarchy, but his awareness grew, a quiet understanding that seemed to settle in his dark eyes whenever he looked at you, a silent acknowledgment of the battles you fought unseen.

One particularly unpleasant afternoon, as you were walking home from school, clutching your backpack straps tightly, a group of boisterous guys from the basketball team, emboldened by their perceived social superiority, started making crude, insensitive remarks.

"Hey, look, it's Beauty and the Beast!" one of them jeered, his voice dripping with a nasty sarcasm that made your stomach clench. "Guess who's Beauty?" another one chimed in, eliciting a round of snickers. You froze, your face flushing crimson with shame, your instinct to disappear into the nearest crack in the sidewalk overwhelming.

Before you could shrink away and endure their taunts in silence, Jisung, who had been walking a few discreet steps behind you, his presence unnoticed until that moment, moved with a sudden, terrifying speed. He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, grabbing the loudest offender by the collar of his expensive sports jacket, his knuckles white with barely suppressed fury.

"Shut your fucking mouth," Jisung growled, his usual cool, detached demeanor replaced by a raw, furious intensity you had never witnessed before, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. The other guys, initially amused, backed away, their laughter dying in their throats, surprised and intimidated by his violent outburst. Jisung shoved the guy away, his eyes blazing with a protective anger.

"Don't you ever talk about her like that again. Do you understand me?" The guy, visibly shaken and surprised by the ferocity of Jisung's reaction, mumbled a hasty apology and hurried away with his equally stunned friends. Jisung turned to you, his chest heaving slightly, his expression softening infinitesimally, a hint of genuine concern in his dark eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and surprisingly gentle. You could only nod mutely, your breath caught in your throat, the unexpected, fierce defense leaving you both shaken and strangely… protected, a warmth spreading through the cold knot of shame in your chest.

But the incident, as such things often do in the hothouse environment of high school, had significant repercussions. Whispers followed Jisung down the hallways now, laced with a different, more salacious kind of speculation. "Did you see him go after her like that?" someone murmured, their eyes wide with gossip.

"He's totally obsessed with that… chubby girl. What does he even see in her?" The rumors spread like wildfire, fueled by the public display of Jisung's anger and your continued, albeit still somewhat hesitant, proximity. "Jisung's into fatties," one particularly cruel comment, delivered with a deliberate, cutting edge, reached his ears in the crowded cafeteria during lunch.

The words, meant to be a public humiliation aimed at both of you, hit a raw nerve, igniting a fury within him that you had only glimpsed before. In a flash, Jisung was on his feet, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were bone-white.

He strode purposefully towards the group of guys who had been snickering, his eyes dark with a barely controlled rage. He grabbed the one who had spoken by the front of his shirt and slammed him against a nearby table, sending trays clattering and food scattering across the linoleum floor.

"Listen here, you piece of shit," Jisung snarled, his voice dangerously low but carrying through the stunned silence of the suddenly hushed cafeteria. "She isn't fat. She is chubby, and being chubby isn't inherently bad. She looks absolutely beautiful.

There is a fundamental difference between ignorance and deliberate malice. Educate yourself, you fucker." He punctuated his furious words with a sharp, brutal punch to the guy's jaw before his stunned friends could react and pull him away. The cafeteria buzzed with shocked whispers and a newfound, albeit grudging and often resentful, respect for Jisung's fierce, albeit violent, defense of you.

The rumors, however, persisted, twisting the narrative into something you increasingly dreaded. "Rich brat Jisung dating the school outcast," they whispered, their voices laced with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. "Probably just a phase. He'll get bored of her eventually and go back to the pretty, skinny girls."

These whispers, amplified by the dramatic incident in the cafeteria, inevitably reached the venomous ears of your aunt. The subtle shift in Jisung's behavior, the undeniable attention he was now paying you, confirmed her worst, most cynical suspicions.

"So," she hissed one evening as you were silently washing dishes after a particularly grueling day at school and an even more grueling dinner with her, her eyes narrowed with a predatory suspicion, "that rich boy has his claws in you now, hasn't he?" You flinched at the venom in her tone, the familiar sting of her judgment.

"He's just… a friend, Aunt," you mumbled, trying to keep your voice steady despite the tremor that ran through you. Her hand shot out with surprising speed, catching you across the face, the sharp crack echoing in the small, cramped kitchen. The physical pain was a familiar ache, but the accusation that followed cut far deeper. "Don't lie to me, you little gold digger!" she spat, her grip tightening on your arm like a vise.

"I knew it. I always knew you were after something. Trying to latch onto his money, aren't you? Just like your good-for-nothing mother!" Her words were like a toxic poison, seeping into the fragile sense of hope that had begun to tentatively bloom within you, twisting the unexpected kindness into something ugly and manipulative. The physical pain was nothing compared to the crushing weight of her accusations, her bitter, distorted perception of your burgeoning connection with Jisung.

The relentless rumors, your aunt's brutal abuse and her vile accusations, the gnawing fear of what others were saying about Jisung because of his association with you – it all became an unbearable weight, crushing the fragile shoots of hope that had dared to emerge.

The unexpected bridge you had started to build with Jisung felt like it was crumbling beneath your feet, the whispers and judgments like relentless waves eroding the foundation. In a desperate, self-preservationist attempt to protect yourself, to retreat back into the familiar, albeit agonizing, solitude, you made a drastic, heart-wrenching decision.

With trembling fingers, tears blurring your vision, you blocked Jisung's number on your old phone, severing the digital lifeline that had offered a sliver of connection. You deleted your text conversations, erasing the late-night exchanges that had brought you a fleeting sense of belonging, the digital echoes of his unexpected kindness now too painful to bear.

You started avoiding the library during your usual study times, the quiet corners now feeling like painful, empty reminders of his focused presence. When he tried to approach you in the crowded hallways, his usual aloofness replaced with a bewildered concern, his brow furrowed with worry and a silent question in his dark eyes, you would turn away, your heart aching with a silent scream of despair trapped in your throat, your gaze fixed resolutely on the opposite wall.

The umbrellas and game nights became distant, bittersweet memories, shrouded in a self-imposed silence, a shield you erected to protect your already battered heart from a world that seemed determined to misunderstand and hurt you.

The fragile connection, barely formed, snapped under the immense weight of fear, misunderstanding, and the crushing reality of your own deeply ingrained insecurities, leaving you alone again in the echoing silence of your own making, the black umbrella a stark, painful reminder of what could have been.

--

Eight years. An epoch in the fleeting landscape of youth, a span long enough for the seasons to cycle countless times, painting the world in vibrant hues of spring and summer, then stripping it bare with the stark beauty of autumn and winter.

Enough time for fledgling cities to evolve into sprawling, gleaming metropolises of steel and glass, their skylines perpetually reaching for the heavens, monuments to human ambition and progress.

And certainly enough time for the tentative bud of a high school connection, once so fragile and fraught with misunderstanding, to wither into a distant, almost dreamlike memory, its sharp edges softened by the relentless passage of time, its significance fading into the hazy recesses of the past, like a forgotten melody played on a broken instrument, its notes barely audible.

You were no longer the shrinking, self-conscious teenager haunted by the cruel whispers that echoed in the crowded hallways and the oppressive silence of a toxic home, a ghost in your own life. You had painstakingly, meticulously built a new life for yourself, brick by emotional brick, each one laid with the mortar of hard work, unwavering determination, and a fierce, almost defiant independence that had blossomed in the fertile ground of necessity, a shield against the vulnerabilities of the past.

The late nights spent poring over textbooks, the quiet dedication to mastering complex algorithms and intricate lines of code, the relentless pursuit of knowledge in the digital realm, had finally translated into a thriving career as a successful IT engineer in your early twenties.

You commanded respect in boardrooms, your innovative solutions were sought after by colleagues and superiors alike, and your code was elegant, efficient, a testament to the sharp, analytical mind that had always been your secret strength, a weapon against the insecurities that once threatened to consume you.

Your personal life, however, remained a carefully constructed fortress, its walls high and its gates firmly locked, guarded by years of ingrained caution and a deep-seated wariness of vulnerability. You lived alone in a sleek, minimalist apartment perched high above the city's relentless pulse, a sanctuary of your own making where silence was a welcome companion and your personal space was your own inviolable domain, a stark contrast to the chaotic, unpredictable environment of your adolescence. The panoramic city views from your floor-to-ceiling windows served as a constant reminder of how far you had come, a testament to your resilience.

Close friends were a concept that felt foreign, almost unnecessary, a potential source of pain you had learned to avoid, the risk of emotional entanglement outweighing the promise of genuine connection. The scars of the past ran deep, invisible but persistent, leaving you emotionally guarded, wary of any hint of intimacy, and proficient at maintaining a polite, professional distance from everyone you encountered. Trust was a precious currency you hoarded carefully, rarely spending it, its value inflated by the painful lessons etched into the fabric of your youth, lessons you had no intention of repeating.

One crisp autumn afternoon, the air carrying the melancholic scent of fallen leaves swirling in the city's canyons and the sharp, invigorating promise of a coming winter, you were hurrying down a busy downtown street during your lunch break. A mental checklist of errands – dry cleaning, a quick stop at the independent bookstore you frequented for its comforting smell of old paper and ink, and perhaps a decent cup of artisanal coffee from that new place around the corner – ran through your mind with the precision of a well-written algorithm, each task prioritized and scheduled.

Lost in the intricate logic of a particularly challenging debugging task you'd been wrestling with all morning, your mind still tracing the elusive error in the cascading lines of code, a phantom bug that seemed to shift and evade your every attempt to squash it, you rounded a sharp corner near a bustling, trendy coffee shop and collided with someone.

The unexpected impact sent a jolt through you and your sleek, state-of-the-art smartphone skittering across the textured pavement, its screen momentarily flashing a distorted image of your focused concentration before going dark, a small tragedy in your otherwise meticulously managed day.

"Oh, excuse me! I am so incredibly sorry," you murmured automatically, bending down to retrieve your device, your initial annoyance momentarily overshadowed by the awkwardness of the unexpected physical contact and the immediate fear of a cracked screen, a costly inconvenience in your otherwise meticulously ordered life.

As you straightened up, your eyes traveled upwards, drawn to the man you had bumped into. He was taller now, the lean frame of his youth filled out with a more mature breadth across his shoulders, the boyish angularity of his face softened by the passage of time into a subtly handsome countenance, etched with the faintest lines of experience around his eyes, lines that hinted at late nights and weighty decisions, a roadmap of the years that had passed.

Wire-framed glasses, a sophisticated touch you wouldn't have pictured on the often casually dressed teenager you remembered, perched on the bridge of his nose, framing intelligent, familiar eyes that widened almost imperceptibly in surprise, a fleeting flicker of recognition dancing within their depths, a spark that ignited a dormant ember within you, sending a surprising warmth through the chill autumn air.

His once meticulously styled, almost severe haircut now fell in a deliberately messy wave across his forehead, giving him a more approachable, less rigidly perfect appearance, a hint of artistic disarray that somehow softened the sharp edges of his undeniable success.

He wore an impeccably tailored wool coat, the dark charcoal fabric hinting at considerable expense and understated power, and held a steaming paper cup in one hand, the rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed, high-end espresso wafting in the cool air, a scent that somehow felt both vaguely familiar and entirely new, a marker of his evolved world.

A jolt of recognition, sharp and unexpected, shot through you, followed by a disorienting wave of a peculiar, almost unsettling familiarity that tugged at the frayed edges of your carefully constructed present, pulling you back to a time you had consciously tried to bury beneath layers of achievement and self-reliance. It couldn't be… could it possibly be? Han Jisung.

Older, undeniably more polished, radiating an aura of quiet confidence and understated power you hadn't witnessed in his teenage years, but the intense gaze that locked with yours, the almost imperceptible quirk of his lips as he registered your presence, was undeniably him.

Your immediate instinct was to disappear, to melt back into the anonymity of the lunchtime crowd, to pretend you hadn't seen him, hadn't felt that disconcerting flicker of recognition that sent a shiver down your spine, a ghost of a past you thought you had outrun finally catching up.

You offered a quick, generic "So sorry," and began to sidestep him, your mind racing, trying to reconcile the aloof, often sharp-edged teenager you remembered with the sophisticated, almost enigmatic man standing before you, a man who exuded an air of quiet authority and effortless charm.

"[Your Name]?" His voice, deeper now, a smooth baritone that resonated in a way the adolescent timbre never had, cutting through the surrounding cacophony of city noise like a familiar melody played on a new instrument, a familiar cadence that pulled at the frayed edges of a long-dormant memory. He said your full name, the way he used to all those years ago during those stolen, quiet moments in the library, a sound that sent a faint, unexpected tremor through you, a vibration that stirred something long dormant within your carefully guarded heart.

You froze, your carefully constructed composure momentarily faltering, the practiced indifference you wore like armor cracking under the unexpected weight of the encounter. You reluctantly met his gaze, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach, a strange mix of apprehension and a hesitant flicker of something akin to… curiosity? "Jisung?" you replied, the name feeling foreign and yet strangely resonant on your tongue after so many years of deliberate disuse, a whisper from a life you thought you had left behind.

A hesitant, almost shy smile touched his lips, a far cry from the cool detachment and occasional sardonic smirk you remembered from high school. "It's been a while," he said, his eyes studying you with an intensity that made you feel strangely exposed, as if he could see past the carefully constructed walls you had built around yourself, peering into the guarded spaces you rarely allowed anyone to glimpse. "You look… well. Successful."

Before you could formulate a polite refusal or an awkward attempt at small talk about the unpredictable autumn weather or the latest traffic snarl that had plagued your morning commute, he gestured vaguely towards the curb with his free hand. "My car's just around the corner. I'm actually heading in your general direction, I think, towards the financial district. Let me give you a ride back to your office. Save you the walk."

Suspicion, a familiar and unwelcome companion, immediately flared within you, its icy tendrils wrapping around your apprehension. Why? After all this time, after the abrupt and painful way your fragile connection had ended, leaving you feeling abandoned and misunderstood? What could he possibly want after eight long years of silence, years you had spent meticulously rebuilding your life without him, brick by painstaking brick?

You hesitated, weighing the awkwardness of accepting his unexpected offer against the even greater awkwardness of a prolonged conversation on a busy street, the risk of dredging up memories you had worked so diligently to bury beneath layers of professional success and emotional detachment.

There was a strange pull, however, an undeniable flicker of curiosity that you couldn't entirely ignore, a nagging question about the man he had become, the path his life had taken in the years since you last saw him. Against your better judgment, a small, almost imperceptible nod escaped you. "Okay," you said, your voice betraying a hint of your inner turmoil, the single word hanging in the air between you, heavy with unspoken history.

He led you not to a typical, anonymous sedan, but to a breathtakingly beautiful Pagani, its sleek, aerodynamic lines a testament to both artistry and engineering prowess, its low, guttural growl a subtle promise of immense power that vibrated through the very pavement beneath your feet.

The car turned heads as you approached, its presence a silent statement of wealth and refined taste, a world away from the battered jalopies that cluttered the high school parking lot of your memory. The passenger door swung open with a soft, almost theatrical whir, revealing luxurious leather seats that enveloped you in their rich embrace as you hesitantly settled inside, the scent of supple leather and something subtly, intoxicatingly expensive filling your senses, a stark contrast to the worn fabric of your old school backpack and the faint scent of your aunt's harsh cleaning supplies that still sometimes clung to your clothes.

The drive was short, punctuated by a strained, polite conversation about the unseasonably warm autumn weather and the general state of the city's ever-congested traffic, the mundane topics a flimsy shield against the unspoken questions that hung heavy in the air between you.

As he smoothly pulled up to your modern office building, its glass façade reflecting the crisp blue sky and the bustling energy of the city, a monument to your hard-won success, he mentioned the name of his investment firm, a brief, almost casual remark dropped into the otherwise stilted conversation as if discussing the morning's headlines. "Stratagem Capital," he said as you reached for the cool, brushed metal of the door handle, your fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second, a sudden premonition settling in your stomach.

"We're actually scheduled to have a rather important meeting with your company next week. Regarding a potential significant investment opportunity."

A sudden, chilling realization washed over you, cold and sharp as glacial ice, stealing your breath and sending a tremor of disbelief through you. "Stratagem Capital?" you repeated, your voice barely a whisper, the name echoing in the sudden silence of the car, a sound that resonated with an unexpected, almost ominous significance.

Your company, a promising tech startup you had poured your heart and soul into for the past few years, a testament to your resilience and your brilliance, had been working tirelessly for months, preparing meticulously crafted presentations, crunching complex financial projections that represented your team's collective hopes and dreams, pouring every ounce of energy and fragile optimism into securing a crucial investment that could catapult your small firm to the next level, finally allowing your innovative ideas to truly take flight and disrupt the industry.

The lead investor's name had been circulated amongst the senior staff, a prominent and highly respected figure in the tech industry, a name that carried significant weight, but in the whirlwind of deadlines and preparations, you hadn't paid it much attention beyond the professional implications, the potential for growth and validation.

You looked at Jisung, really looked at him, the tailored coat that spoke of power, the air of quiet confidence that radiated from him, the casual mention of multi-million dollar investments as if it were everyday conversation. The aloof, sometimes volatile jock of your past had metamorphosed into a powerful, influential man, a titan in the very industry you were striving to conquer.

And he was the investor. The key to your company's future, the man whose decision could make or break everything you had worked so hard to achieve, the man who now held your professional destiny in his hands. The unexpected, almost cruelly ironic twist hung in the air between you, thick with unspoken history, unresolved emotions, and the immense weight of a potentially very complicated, and possibly very high-stakes, future.

The past and the present had collided with a force that left you reeling, the comfortable distance you had cultivated shattered by the unexpected reappearance of a ghost from your past, a ghost who now held the keys to your future.

--

The meeting with Stratagem Capital the following week proceeded with an almost unnerving smoothness. You, as the lead engineer on the project, presented your team's innovative work with a calm professionalism that belied the turmoil churning within you. You fielded questions with clarity and precision, your deep understanding of the technology shining through.

Jisung, seated at the head of the table, listened intently, his gaze steady and focused, occasionally interjecting with insightful queries that demonstrated a genuine interest in your company's vision. There was a detached air to his professionalism, a stark contrast to the unexpected ride you had shared, making it almost seem like that encounter had been a figment of your imagination.

Yet, the occasional flicker of something familiar in his eyes, a brief, almost imperceptible softening of his expression when your gazes met, hinted at the complicated history that lay beneath the surface.

Weeks drifted by in a strange state of limbo. The investment from Stratagem Capital was still under consideration, a looming decision that hung over your company like a delicate balance. In the meantime, you found yourself running into Jisung with surprising frequency.

A silent acknowledgment in the building lobby, a shared elevator ride where neither of you spoke, the air thick with unspoken words and the weight of the past. Occasionally, their paths would cross outside the office, and he would offer you a ride home, a proposition you initially met with hesitant suspicion.

The first few times, the drives were stiff and awkward. Polite inquiries about work and the city filled the silence, careful conversations that skirted around the eight years of absence and the abrupt end of your high school connection.

You remained guarded, observing him with a cautious eye, trying to decipher his intentions. Was this mere politeness, a byproduct of your professional entanglement? Or was there something more beneath the surface?

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a fragile sense of familiarity began to seep back into your interactions. The silences during the car rides became less strained, occasionally punctuated by a shared observation about a news report or a wry comment about the city's unpredictable traffic.

You found yourself, on a couple of particularly late nights at the office, accepting his offer of a ride without the initial surge of suspicion. There was a strange comfort in the shared journey, a sense of unexpected ease that surprised you.

Unbeknownst to you, Jisung had been meticulously piecing together the fragments of the past, recalling details from your brief time in high school. He remembered your quiet enthusiasm for a particular indie game, the way your eyes lit up when discussing a certain author, and, most surprisingly, he remembered your birthday.

A date that had somehow lodged itself in the recesses of his memory, a small, insignificant detail from a lifetime ago. As your birthday approached, he found himself making plans, a quiet dinner at a restaurant with a discreet, elegant ambiance, the perfect setting to finally ask you out, to see if the fragile connection rekindled by chance could blossom into something more.

Then, one afternoon, as you were leaving the office, he saw you standing outside, laughing with a male coworker. Your head was thrown back, your face radiant with genuine amusement, a carefree expression he hadn't witnessed on you in all the years he had known you, even in your brief moments of joy in high school.

A sharp, unexpected pang of jealousy, unfamiliar and unwelcome, clenched in his chest. The easy camaraderie you shared with this colleague, the effortless joy in your expression, stirred something possessive within him, a feeling he hadn't anticipated.

That evening, as you were packing up your things, preparing for the quiet solitude of your apartment, Jisung was waiting for you in the lobby. Instead of his usual quiet offer of a ride, he stood near the reception desk, his presence drawing the attention of several of your colleagues who were also leaving for the day.

He waited until your eyes met his across the bustling space, and then, his voice carrying with a newfound confidence that echoed through the lobby, he addressed you publicly. "Ms. [Your Last Name]," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, his gaze holding yours. "Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tomorrow night?"

All eyes in the lobby turned to you, a mixture of curiosity and speculation in their gazes. Caught completely off guard by the public invitation, a blush creeping up your neck, you felt a wave of awkwardness wash over you. The memories of the high school rumors, the sting of your aunt's accusations, flashed through your mind.

Yet, there was also a strange pull, a reluctant curiosity to see where this unexpected turn of events might lead. Under the scrutiny of your colleagues, their hushed whispers filling the sudden silence, you managed a hesitant, "Yes, Mr. Han. I would." The agreement felt both inevitable and incredibly awkward, a step back into a past you had tried so hard to leave behind, under the watchful eyes of your present.

-

A nervous energy, a fluttering anticipation you hadn't permitted yourself to feel in years, stirred within the carefully guarded chambers of your heart as you prepared for the unexpected dinner. You stood before your closet, a meticulously curated collection of professional attire in understated hues that spoke of competence and control, and sought something that felt both comfortable and hinted at the special occasion, a subtle rebellion against your usual reserved style, a quiet acknowledgment of the significance of the evening.

Your gaze finally settled on a cherry red top, a vibrant splash of color that always seemed to inject a bit of defiant joy into your spirit, a bold statement against the muted tones that often mirrored your inner landscape. You paired it with a denim skort, a touch of casual familiarity amidst the potential formality of the evening, a grounding element that reminded you of the woman you were beneath the polished exterior you presented to the world.

To elevate the look, you chose a pair of sleek cherry red heels, adding a confident lift to your stride and a subtle statement of intent, a silent assertion of your own worth. Finally, you adorned yourself with delicate gold jewelry – a slender necklace that rested at your collarbone, catching the light with a subtle shimmer that drew attention to the graceful curve of your neck, and elegant stud earrings that framed your face with a touch of understated grace, adding a hint of warmth to your otherwise cool demeanor.

The reflection staring back was a woman you had painstakingly built, piece by painstaking piece, strong and independent, a far cry from the invisible, shrinking girl of your past, a testament to your resilience and unwavering spirit.

A sharp, insistent knock echoed through the quiet of your apartment, a sound that both quickened your pulse and filled you with a sense of nervous anticipation. Taking a deep breath, a silent promise to yourself to simply relax and enjoy the evening, regardless of where it might lead, you opened the door to find Jisung standing there.

The black satin shirt he wore accentuated the broad expanse of his shoulders, the fabric catching the soft hallway light with a subtle, almost liquid sheen that hinted at a quiet luxury. The wire-framed glasses added an unexpected intellectual air to his already handsome features, making his sharp, intelligent eyes seem even more thoughtful and perceptive, and you couldn't help but notice how undeniably fine he looked, a refined elegance that was both familiar, a ghost of the intense, sometimes volatile boy you once knew, and entirely new, a testament to the years that had sculpted him into this composed, intriguing man.

The ride to the restaurant was initially filled with a nervous tension, a subtle undercurrent of awkwardness that mirrored your earlier encounters, the silence punctuated by the gentle hum of the Pagani's engine.

Polite conversation filled the gaps, careful inquiries about the day's events and the surprisingly mild autumn weather, neither of you quite venturing into the deeper, more turbulent waters of your shared history or the uncertain territory of the present.

You found yourself stealing glances at him, trying to reconcile the composed man beside you, radiating an air of quiet confidence, with the memory of the intense, sometimes volatile teenager who had defended you in the crowded school cafeteria.

The restaurant was perched on a rooftop, offering a breathtaking panorama of the city lights twinkling below like a million scattered diamonds on a velvet cloth. The ambiance was sophisticated and intimate, soft jazz music drifting through the air, the murmur of hushed conversations a gentle hum that created a sense of secluded elegance, a world away from the noisy chaos of your high school days.

The initial awkwardness during dinner slowly began to dissipate as the conversation drifted towards lighter topics – shared observations about the dazzling city skyline, a brief, surprisingly engaging discussion about a thought-provoking documentary you had both recently watched, revealing unexpected common interests that bridged the years.

Then, as the dessert arrived, a delicate chocolate torte adorned with a single, flickering candle, casting a warm glow on his face, Jisung's eyes met yours with a soft intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "Happy birthday, [Your Name]," he said, his voice a low, warm murmur that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine, a simple acknowledgment that held a weight of unspoken understanding.

He then presented you with a small, exquisitely wrapped box, the paper a deep, rich burgundy tied with a silver ribbon, the weight of it surprisingly substantial in your hand. Inside, nestled in soft, black velvet, was a heavy crystal perfume bottle, its facets catching the candlelight.

You lifted it, your breath catching in your throat. The delicate, floral and slightly musky scent that wafted upwards was instantly, achingly familiar, a nostalgic echo of your high school days, a fragrance you hadn't encountered in years, a scent that held within it the ghost of a younger, more vulnerable you.

And then you saw it – your name, [Your Name], elegantly and intricately carved into the smooth, cool glass of the bottle, a personal touch that resonated with a profound intimacy. A wave of emotion washed over you, a poignant mix of profound surprise and an unexpected tenderness that resonated deep within your carefully guarded heart.

He remembered. He remembered the small, seemingly insignificant detail of your favorite scent from a lifetime ago, a scent that evoked bittersweet memories of a time when simple pleasures held a greater significance, a time before the weight of the world had settled so heavily on your shoulders.

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at him, a raw vulnerability exposed that you rarely allowed anyone to witness, a crack in the carefully constructed facade of your independence.

"Jisung," you began, your voice trembling slightly, the carefully constructed walls around your heart momentarily crumbling under the weight of his unexpected thoughtfulness and the poignant memories the perfume evoked. "This is… this is incredibly thoughtful. More than I could have ever expected. Thank you."

You paused, gathering your courage to voice the deeper turmoil that had plagued you for so long, the insecurities that still whispered in the quiet corners of your mind. "But… I need to be honest with you. I… I don't love myself. Not really. Not in the way someone should. And if I don't love myself, how can I possibly let anyone else truly love me? I'm… I'm afraid of that. Afraid of being hurt again, afraid of not being enough."

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy with years of unspoken pain, ingrained insecurity, and the deep-seated fear of repeating the hurts of the past, a truth you had carried like a secret burden.

He reached across the table, his larger hand gently covering yours, his touch warm and grounding, a silent reassurance that transcended words.

His gaze was earnest, unwavering, filled with a quiet understanding that surprised you with its depth, a knowing look that seemed to see past your carefully constructed defenses. "Then I'll wait," he said softly, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand, his eyes conveying a patience you hadn't anticipated, a steadfastness that offered a glimmer of hope.

"I'll wait until you do, [Your Name]. Because I know, deep down, the incredible woman you are, the strength and resilience you possess. And I believe you'll see it too, eventually. And when you do, whenever that may be, I'll still be here." His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, an unexpected promise of unwavering support and a profound belief in you that resonated deep within your heart, planting a tiny seed of hope in the barren landscape of your self-doubt, a fragile promise of a future you hadn't dared to imagine.

--

The rooftop dinner, bathed in the soft glow of city lights and punctuated by the raw vulnerability you had dared to share, marked a subtle but significant shift in the long, unspoken narrative between you and Jisung. The confession, the hesitant unveiling of your deepest insecurities, hung in the air not as a source of awkwardness or a point of retreat, but as a fragile, newly forged bridge spanning the chasm of years and misunderstandings.

In the weeks that followed, slow, deliberate progress began, like the tentative unfurling of a tightly closed bloom. A simple goodnight text evolved into a brief, thoughtful exchange the next day. A casual inquiry about the challenges of your workday led to a late-night phone call, the comfortable silence that occasionally fell between you gradually replacing the nervous tension and unspoken anxieties of the past.

He didn't push, didn't make demands or issue expectations. He simply offered his quiet, unwavering presence, a steady anchor in the sometimes-turbulent waters of your emotions, a silent reassurance that he wasn't going anywhere.

He would text a simple "How was your day?" or share an interesting article he thought you might find engaging, a small gesture that spoke volumes about his attentiveness. Occasionally, he would suggest a late-night study session, the pretense of academic pursuit now a comfortable backdrop for shared interests – a complex documentary that sparked a fascinating debate, a classic novel you had always intended to read but never found the time for, its pages becoming a shared landscape of discovery.

Slowly, tentatively, you began to lower the carefully constructed walls around your heart, brick by painstaking brick. You found a surprising comfort in his quiet understanding, the way he listened without judgment, his responses thoughtful and genuine, reflecting a depth of empathy you hadn't encountered before.

He learned your rhythms, the days you needed space to navigate the lingering shadows of your past, the evenings you might welcome a gentle distraction, a shared meal, or a quiet conversation. He even started suggesting you cook together at his spacious, modern apartment, his sleek kitchen a stark and welcoming contrast to the cramped, often tense atmosphere of the kitchen of your childhood.

These evenings were filled with a comfortable domesticity, the shared task of preparing a meal, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the simmering of sauces, becoming a silent language of growing intimacy and trust.

A year spun by, marked by the subtle shifts in the seasons and the more profound shifts within yourself. Jisung's unwavering patience and quiet, steadfast support had become an integral and comforting presence in your life, a constant source of gentle encouragement.

You found yourself laughing more freely, the sound echoing in your apartment without the familiar tinge of self-consciousness. Your steps felt lighter, your shoulders less burdened. The sharp edges of your emotional guardedness began to soften, replaced by a tentative sense of self-acceptance, a growing understanding of your own inherent worth.

You started looking at your reflection with a kinder, more forgiving eye, the critical voice within slowly quieting its relentless judgment. While the journey to fully loving yourself was an ongoing process, a path you were still navigating, you were undeniably more confident, more emotionally stable, the foundations of your well-being feeling stronger and more resilient than they ever had before.

Then, finally, came the day of the project launch, the culmination of months of intense work, sleepless nights, and unwavering dedication, the very project upon which Stratagem Capital's significant investment hinged. The atmosphere in the office was electric with a palpable mixture of nervous anticipation and focused energy, the air thick with the unspoken hopes and fears of your entire team.

You, as the lead engineer and the driving force behind the innovation, presented the final product with a quiet confidence that belied the subtle tremor of excitement within you, your voice steady and clear as you navigated the intricate technical details, your passion for the project shining through.

Everything went smoothly, the system performing flawlessly, its elegant functionality and groundbreaking capabilities impressing the stakeholders. A collective sigh of relief and a wave of triumphant exhaustion washed over your team as the launch was officially declared a resounding success, a testament to your collective hard work and vision.

That evening, a simple text message from Jisung arrived on your phone, the familiar name on the screen sending a warmth spreading through you: "Stratagem party tonight. Nexus. Consider it a celebration of a job well done."

It was a casual invitation, understated in its wording, but the underlying warmth and a hint of personal invitation were unmistakable, a quiet acknowledgment of your shared journey and your individual triumph. Hesitantly, a sense of nervous excitement fluttering in your stomach, you decided to go.

-

The invitation to Nexus arrived with a subtly possessive addendum from Jisung, delivered via a late-night text that vibrated with an unspoken intimacy: "Wear black. It suits you, highlights the fire in your eyes, and makes those cherry lips look like they're begging for a taste."

Trusting his quiet confidence and the undeniably suggestive compliment, you chose a sleek black dress. Its simple elegance skimmed your curves like a whispered promise, a silent statement of newfound comfort and a daring hint of burgeoning sensuality in your own skin.

The fabric flowed around you like liquid night, a stark contrast to the vibrant, almost defiant red of your birthday dinner, yet equally, if not more, captivating, a subtle promise of the woman you were slowly, deliberately unleashing.

At the club, "Nexus," Jisung's sleek and exclusive domain, the celebratory atmosphere was thick with the intoxicating blend of pulsating music, unrestrained laughter, and the expensive, heady aroma of designer perfume and celebratory spirits.

Your colleagues, flushed with the heady success of the project launch, their usual professional reserve dissolving with each shared bottle of champagne, were in high spirits, their inhibitions lowered to a dangerous degree. You found yourself drawn into their revelry, the offered glasses of the effervescent liquid, each accompanied by increasingly suggestive toasts to your team's brilliance and your own pivotal role, proving utterly irresistible in the face of their insistent camaraderie and playful shoves.

Your notoriously low tolerance for alcohol, a delicate secret you rarely shared, meant the celebratory drinks went to your head with thrilling speed, the edges of the room beginning to soften and sway, the bass of the music vibrating deep within your core, a physical manifestation of the delicious unraveling of your carefully controlled senses, igniting a reckless, intoxicating warmth that spread through your veins.

Soon, a giddy laughter, a sound that had been long suppressed beneath layers of self-consciousness and ingrained caution, bubbled up from within you, a lightness you hadn't experienced with such uninhibited abandon in years.

Encouraged by your tipsy colleagues, their cheers and suggestive winks egging you on, you found yourself on the dance floor, moving with a fluid, uninhibited grace that surprised even yourself, a joyous, almost primal release of pent-up tension and newfound confidence.

Through the shimmering haze of alcohol and flashing lights, your gaze locked with Jisung's across the crowded room.

He was watching you from the edge of the dance floor, leaning against a polished chrome pillar, a soft, almost possessive smile playing on his lips, his gaze dark, intense, and utterly unwavering, a silent observer who seemed to find a quiet amusement and a palpable, smoldering desire in your uncharacteristic abandon.

His eyes held a dark, knowing gleam that sent a shiver of raw anticipation dancing down your spine.

A sudden, deliciously wicked impulse, fueled by the alcohol's intoxicating loosening grip on your inhibitions and a burgeoning, undeniable, almost desperate affection for the man who watched you with such quiet intensity, overtook you with a thrilling recklessness.

With a playful shout that was almost a husky invitation, you weaved through the dancing crowd, a black-clad siren navigating the throng with an unexpected agility, reached Jisung, and, with a boldness that made your own heart pound, yanked him down by the collar of his dark, subtly shimmering silk shirt.

Your cherry-red lips crashed onto his in a kiss that was anything but demure, a rush of giddy affection, uninhibited desire, and a playful, teasing exploration of the boundaries that had long separated you. Your hands tangled in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until your bodies were pressed together, the kiss a heady mix of champagne-fueled impulsiveness and a genuine longing that had been slowly simmering beneath the surface for months, now boiling over.

You nipped playfully at his lower lip before deepening the kiss, your tongue darting out to tease his, a silent, brazen dare in your slightly inebriated state that made his breath hitch and a low groan rumble in his chest.

You punctuated the bold move by gently biting down on his lower lip, a playful yet possessive gesture, before tugging lightly, drawing a surprised, yet undeniably pleased, sound from him.

He recoiled slightly, a flicker of surprise widening his dark eyes before a gentle, yet firm, hand cupped your cheek, stilling your impulsive actions, his thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your ear with a tender possessiveness that sent a delicious thrill spiraling through you.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your swollen lips, a note of amused concern and a definite, husky undercurrent of arousal lacing his tone.

"Easy there, Ms. Y/L/N. Those cherry lips are getting a little… demanding, and you're swaying like a particularly lovely willow tree in a strong breeze. Though, I must admit," his gaze dropped to your lips, a dark heat flickering in his eyes, a predatory gleam that made your pulse quicken, "it's a rather… persuasive argument."

He carefully, yet reluctantly, disentangled himself, his arm remaining possessively around your waist, his touch a steady anchor in your suddenly unsteady world.

Gently but firmly, he steered you away from the pulsating crowd, his concern evident in his steady, unwavering gaze, though a hint of reluctant longing and a definite spark of desire still lingered in their depths.

He helped you into the cool, luxurious embrace of his Pagani, the soft leather a welcome contrast to the sudden heat that flushed your skin.

The ride back to your apartment was quiet, punctuated only by your occasional giggles and his soft, reassuring murmurs, his hand resting lightly on your thigh, his fingers occasionally flexing as if fighting a fierce internal battle against the urge to explore further.

As you fumbled with your door, the city lights blurring through the alcohol-induced haze, Jisung patiently guided your unsteady hand to the keypad.

You punched in the code '14092000', the familiar sequence a jumbled mess in your slightly inebriated mind, the numbers swimming before your eyes. Then, as the lock clicked open, the realization hit you with the force of a sudden downpour, a wave of unexpected warmth flooding through the alcoholic haze.

The numbers… they were his birthday. A small, intimate detail he had entrusted to you, a silent gesture of trust that spoke volumes about the depth of his feelings and the quiet intimacy you now shared, a secret language whispered in digits that now felt like a key to something much deeper.

Once inside your apartment, the lingering effects of the alcohol made you clumsy and endearingly unsteady, your movements a little too dramatic, your laughter a little too loud, each step a playful sway that threatened to send you tumbling.

As Jisung guided you towards your bedroom, his hand a firm, reassuring presence on your back, a wave of affection, amplified by the alcohol and the heady emotions of the evening, washed over you with an almost overwhelming intensity.

You turned to him, your movements slightly exaggerated, a playful glint in your eyes that hinted at mischief and a burgeoning, almost desperate desire. Reaching out, you tugged gently on his hand, pulling him down onto the edge of your bed with a soft giggle that bordered on a husky sigh.

You then proceeded to crawl onto the mattress, straddling his lap, your black dress riding up your thighs with a scandalous disregard for propriety, snuggling on top of him, your head resting comfortably against his chest, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart a comforting rhythm beneath your ear.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair, pulling him closer until your lips were mere inches apart, your breath mingling. "Jisung," you mumbled, your words slightly slurred but filled with a genuine warmth that radiated through you, "I think… no, I know… I love you. You're… you're so good to me. And you smell absolutely intoxicating," you added with a tipsy giggle, nuzzling closer and pressing a lingering, deliberately provocative kiss to the sensitive skin of his neck, your cherry-red lips leaving a faint, fleeting imprint.

You then repeated the playful bite on his lower lip, tugging gently and watching his eyes darken with a mixture of amusement and something far more primal.

A soft chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating against your ear, a sound filled with a tender amusement and a palpable, tightly leashed desire that made his muscles tense beneath you. He gently stroked your hair, his fingers tangling in the soft strands, his voice a heart-fluttering whisper against your temple, filled with a tender amusement and a quiet longing that mirrored your own, tinged with a hint of reluctant control.

"And I, [Your Name]," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin, his arms tightening around your waist for a fleeting, possessive moment before relaxing, his gaze dark and intense as he looked down at you, his eyes lingering on your parted lips, then drifting down to where your hips subtly pressed against his.

"Am willing to wait until those beautiful, slightly tipsy words hold the same crystal clarity as the stars we saw painting the night sky. But darling," his voice dropped to a husky whisper that sent a shiver down your spine, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a feather-light touch that hinted at a barely suppressed hunger, "the waiting is becoming… an exquisite form of torture, especially with those tempting little nibbles."

He held you close, a silent battle raging within him, resisting the undeniable pull of the moment, respecting the vulnerability of your inebriated state, his own desire held firmly in check by a deeper, more profound affection and a gentlemanly restraint that spoke volumes about the depth of his character, even as his body betrayed a different, urgent story.

-- Next Morning

Sunlight stabbed at your eyelids, a brutal assault after the night's champagne-fueled escapades. A dull throb hammered behind your eyes, each pulse echoing the questionable decisions of the previous evening. You groaned, turning your face into the pillow, the lingering scent of expensive cologne a faint, comforting anchor in the sea of your queasy stomach. Slowly, reluctantly, you pried your eyes open, the unfamiliar surroundings of your bedroom coming into focus.

Then, the tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon and something sweet, like pancakes, wafted from the kitchen, cutting through the fog of your hangover. You pushed yourself up, the black dress from the night before a crumpled heap on the floor. Padding barefoot towards the source of the enticing smell, you found Jisung standing at your stove, effortlessly flipping pancakes, a comfortable domesticity radiating from him that made your heart do a little flip of its own, despite your pounding head.

He turned as you entered, a knowing smirk playing on his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Morning, sleepyhead," he greeted, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "Slept well? You were quite… enthusiastic last night. Though, I must say," he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, his gaze lingering on your slightly disheveled state, "you have a surprising stamina for someone who claims a low tolerance. You seemed to enjoy our… deep and slow… activities. And if I recall correctly, there were some rather insistent requests for… more."

Panic flared in your chest, hot and sharp. Had you? The memories of last night were fragmented, a blurry montage of laughter, flashing lights, and a reckless boldness you barely recognized. Your cheeks flushed crimson. "We… we didn't… have… sex?" you stammered, your voice thick with sleep and dawning horror.

His smirk widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Relax, agassi," he chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. "Just teasing. Though your attempts to straddle me were… memorable. And your whispered demands were… certainly noted. I got you safely tucked in. All innocent, I assure you. Mostly."

Relief washed over you in a dizzying wave, leaving you slightly breathless and acutely aware of the lingering heat in your cheeks. He moved towards you, his hands reaching out to frame your face, his thumbs gently stroking your temples. "Though," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips, a familiar heat returning to his eyes, "that kiss in the club… and those little nibbles… those were definitely real. And rather… persuasive. You seemed to have a particular fondness for my lower lip."

Your brow furrowed, a wave of mortification washing over you. "I… I don't really remember…" you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper, your cheeks burning hotter.

He closed the distance between you, his gaze intense. He reached out, gently taking your hand, and walked you backwards until your spine met the cool surface of the wall. He placed a hand on either side of your head, effectively pinning you, a playful dominance in his stance. Leaning in close, his breath ghosting over your lips, he teased, "Those kisses were quite something, my tipsy darling. And those little bites… rather… possessive. Should I show you how you did it?"

To his surprise, instead of a denial, a hesitant nod escaped you, a flicker of curiosity overriding your embarrassment.

His eyes darkened, a spark of something primal igniting within them. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against yours, a tantalizing prelude. Then, you surged forward, your hands tangling in his hair, your mouth crashing onto his with a desperate, sober longing. This kiss was different, grounded in a clarity that the previous night lacked, a heartfelt confession in every touch. When you finally broke apart, your breath catching in your throat, you looked into his eyes, the hangover momentarily forgotten. "Jisung," you said, your voice clear and steady, the words carrying the weight of a year of quiet understanding and burgeoning love. "I do love you. I really do."

His gaze softened, a profound tenderness replacing the teasing glint. Without a word, he swept you off your feet, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and carried you to the kitchen counter, gently placing you on the cool surface amidst the tantalizing aroma of breakfast. His lips found yours again, this time with a fierce tenderness, a claiming kiss that spoke of shared desire and a love that had been patiently waiting. Hands explored, soft moans escaped your lips, the scent of bacon and pancakes mingling with the raw heat of your bodies. Finally, breathless and flushed, you broke apart, foreheads touching.

Han's voice, a low, husky whisper against your ear, sent a shiver down your spine. "I love you more, my love."

-- The End

[hazelira]

little rebel

Ni-ki was all sharp edges and cold glares, the kind of guy who made people step aside without a word. On the other hand, you were soft-spoken, the quiet storm beside him, wrapped in oversized band tees, ripped jeans, and smudged eyeliner. A matching aesthetic but opposite auras. He was the fire; you were the slow-burning ember.

And then there was him.

A tiny, fragile thing wrapped in a black onesie with skull prints nestled against your chest, his tiny fingers curled into your shirt. Your baby boy. Ni-ki’s son. A piece of both of you, somehow softer than either of you ever thought you could be.

Ni-ki leaned against the bedroom doorframe, arms crossed, watching you hum absentmindedly as you swayed with your son. His face was unreadable, but you could tell—he was fighting something.

“Why do you always look at me like that?” you murmured, adjusting your hold on the baby.

Ni-ki scoffed, running a hand through his messy, oreo dyed hair. “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid.”

Silence. Heavy, uncomfortable, stretching between you both like the night sky.

Then—

“I don’t wanna mess him up,” he muttered, barely loud enough to be heard. His jaw clenched. “I don’t wanna mess you up.”

Your heart ached. You stepped forward, gently bouncing your son in your arms. “Ni-ki…”

“I’m not like you,” he continued, voice lower now. “You’ve always been quiet, careful, good. I’m—” He let out a bitter laugh. “I barely know how to be a person, let alone a dad.”

You reached out with your free hand, grabbing his wrist before he could run like he always did. His skin was warm, his pulse quick beneath your fingers. He never got used to how easily you could break through him.

“You’re here,” you whispered, tugging him closer. “That’s enough.”

He exhaled sharply, gaze flickering to your son. His son. Sleeping soundly despite his father’s demons. Ni-ki swallowed hard, hesitating before brushing a finger over the baby’s cheek.

“Yeah?” His voice cracked just slightly.

You nodded, pressing your forehead against his. “Yeah.”

Ni-ki closed his eyes, breathing you in.

Ni-ki never thought he’d be the type to get soft. But here he was, standing in a dimly lit bedroom with you and his son—the two things he swore he’d never deserve.

The baby stirred in your arms, a tiny yawn escaping his lips before he settled again. Ni-ki’s gaze softened, his calloused fingers barely ghosting over the kid’s cheek.

“He looks like you,” he mumbled.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.” His fingers trailed to the baby’s tiny hand, watching it instinctively grasp his pinky. His heart clenched. “But he’s got my attitude, I bet.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “God help us.”

Ni-ki chuckled, his lips brushing against your temple before he sighed, shifting uncomfortably. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up one day, and this—” he gestured vaguely to the quiet life you had built, the warmth of it, the normalcy—“will be gone.”

You frowned, reaching up to cup his face. “Ni-ki.”

He swallowed, dark eyes flickering with something raw. “I don’t know how to be what he needs. What you need.”

Your brows knitted together. “You’re already what we need.”

He shook his head, pulling away slightly. “I grew up thinking love was temporary. That people leave. That no one stays long enough to fix things.” He exhaled, staring at the baby, who still had his pinky in a tight grip. “But you’re still here. He’s here. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You took his hand, guiding him to sit beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and for a second, he looked smaller. Like the boy he used to be before the world made him sharp.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” you whispered. “Together.”

His throat bobbed. Slowly, he nodded.

The baby squirmed, his tiny face scrunching up before he whined softly. Without thinking, Ni-ki scooped him up, resting him against his chest.

You stared, surprised. “Look at you.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no bite.

The baby nuzzled into his hoodie, sighing in content.

Ni-ki froze as if the weight of his son had suddenly settled into his soul.

You watched as something shifted in his expression—fear melting into something deeper, something softer. He pressed a hesitant kiss to the baby’s forehead, eyes fluttering shut.

Ni-ki had never felt anything like this—this fragile weight against his chest, small and warm, like something sacred. His son. His actual son.

The baby scrunched his tiny nose, letting out a shaken coo, the sound almost questioning, as if he was asking to be held correctly by his dad. His tiny arms flailed, one hand smacking against Ni-ki’s chest, the other grazing his arm with a surprising amount of strength for someone so tiny.

Ni-ki blinked.  

It was weird. The way his son moved reminded him of Bisco, his dog, whenever he held him like a baby. But this wasn’t just some pet he could cradle for fun. This was a real baby. His baby.  

His throat went dry.  

“Uh… what do I do?” he muttered, looking at you in panic.  

You chuckled, reaching out to adjust how he held your son. “You support his head more like this.” Your hands guided his, settling the baby into a secure position against Ni-ki’s chest.  

The baby whined at first, legs kicking, face scrunched up like he was about to scream—but then, as if realizing this was precisely where he wanted to be, he nuzzled into Ni-ki’s hoodie. A deep sigh left his tiny lips, warm breath against his father’s collarbone.  

Ni-ki’s entire body stiffened.  

The baby was so close. So tiny.  

And he trusted him completely.  

“… Oh,” Ni-ki breathed, staring at the little bundle in his arms. “He—he’s just… chilling here.”  

You grinned. “Yeah. He likes you.”  

The words hit deeper than they should have. Ni-ki’s chest tightened. “You think so?”  

“I know so.” You rested a hand on his arm. “Babies can tell when they’re safe.”  

Safe.  

Ni-ki had never thought of himself as safe before, not with how he carried himself—grunge hoodies, ripped jeans, sharp glares that kept people away. But looking down at his son, tiny fingers clutching onto the fabric of his hoodie, he realized that this little thing didn’t care about any of that.  

He was just his.  

Ni-ki swallowed hard, hesitantly lifting a hand to brush his thumb over his son’s round cheek. His skin was soft. Warmer than he expected. A tiny, perfect human.  

His son cooed again, snuggling even deeper against him.  

Ni-ki let out a slow breath, sinking into the moment.  

He was holding his baby.  

And for once in his life, he didn’t want to run.

PART 2

requested by: @mochijoshi

my perm taglist<3 <- request here

[cosmiclily]

domestic cait omgggg... winedrunk chats on the balcony, swimming together, forcing her to go fishing/hiking with u, her dragging you to fancy dinners AHHH I NEED HER

domesticity never looked better on you - caitlyn x f!reader

wc: 3.3k

notes: 😖 i want her!!!! i like cassandra but had to make her mean for the sake of the plot lol

When you first started dating Caitlyn, you were convinced your social status would be a huge problem.

You were raised in a perfectly normal family, in a modest little house miles away from anything even remotely close to a mansion. No housekeepers. No garden parties. No marble foyers or private tennis courts. Just cracked sidewalks, secondhand furniture, and dinners that came out of crockpots—not five-star kitchens.

Caitlyn, on the other hand? She grew up behind iron gates. Old money. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to be flashy because it was so deeply ingrained it didn’t have to prove itself. Quiet wealth. Generational. Silver spoons. Ballroom etiquette. Family heirlooms that were probably worth more than your entire zip code.

So when she started showing interest in you, it honestly felt like a joke. Some kind of social experiment. A rich girl slumming it for the thrill of it. You half expected hidden cameras to pop out from behind the bushes.

“Surprise! You’re on ‘How Long Can the Poor Girl Last?’”

Weeks turned into months, and yet... you never once invited her to your tiny downtown apartment. Maybe it was pride. Maybe shame. Probably both. It just seemed easier—safer—to keep her in her world. Rooftop bars. Sleek restaurants with floors so polished you could see your reflection. Minimalist lofts where dust dared not exist.

But one dinner turned into two, then three, then too many glasses of wine. Then hands—her hands—hungry and desperate, fingers tangling in your hair, lips dragging across your skin like a whispered promise.

Suddenly, your one-bedroom apartment was a lot closer than her fancy penthouse.

Horniness beat shame. Every time.

And when she shoved you against the door of your cluttered little hallway, laughing breathlessly into your mouth, it hit you like a freight train—she didn’t care. Not about the pile of dishes in the sink. Not about the bathroom faucet that wouldn’t stop leaking. Not about the cabinet door that hung crooked and refused to close all the way.

She cared about you. About this.

And God, that was a dangerous thing to realize.

After that, she started coming over more often. It became a rhythm. A routine. A quiet sort of domesticity neither of you acknowledged out loud but both leaned into.

You’d cook dinner together—cheap pasta or something overly ambitious from a YouTube video—and laugh when it inevitably went wrong. You’d split a cigarette on the tiny balcony with the rusty railing, legs tangled together on an old chair that squeaked every time you shifted.

You talked about the future. Sometimes seriously, sometimes just… hypothetical.

"Maybe we should get a bigger place," she mused one night, exhaling smoke through a lazy grin. “Somewhere with a balcony that doesn’t feel like it’s plotting our murder."

"Somewhere with more than one drawer," you grinned back, pretending the idea didn’t make your heart somersault.

She made you feel like the most important person in the world. Like you were the luxury.

The way she’d cup your face with one hand, fingertips gentle beneath your chin, while the other hand held a cigarette between two fingers, the ember catching in her lashes as she looked at you like you were something sacred.

"You know," she’d whisper, her accent syrupy-sweet, "you drive me absolutely insane."

And then she’d kiss you—hungrily, desperately—like she needed you more than air. Pinning you against the kitchen counter. The old leather couch that complained beneath your weight. The rickety dining table. The bedroom door you never managed to fix properly.

She’d sip wine from the fancy glass she bought you for Valentine’s Day—because “no one should drink good wine out of a mug,” she’d scold—and look like a painting. Legs crossed. Chin tilted. Sunlight pooling in her hair like gold.

“You look surreal right now," you’d tell her, breathless, like it was the first time you’d ever seen her.

She’d just smile, slow and knowing. “Good," she’d murmur, sipping her wine. "Because I feel surreal whenever I’m with you."

──────────────────────

Then things got serious-serious. No going back. “Bring her home to meet the family” serious.

Which, of course, meant the annual family hiking trip. A tradition that sounded wholesome in theory but, in practice, was a chaotic mess of your brothers arguing over who forgot the fishing bait, your dad retelling the same “legendary stories” you’ve heard since you were in diapers, and your mom sighing her way through it all with a wine thermos and her well-practiced tolerance.

Caitlyn, in designer boots—boots that had definitely never touched mud before—stepped onto that dirt trail like she was walking a runway. You half expected her to tap out before the first mile. But no. She laced her fingers with yours, smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world, and just… fit.

And then, as expected, came The Story.

Your dad cracked open a beer, leaned back in his folding chair like a king, and started with the classic dramatic sigh.

“You know, girl… there was this one time… I almost took down a bear. All by myself."

You groaned internally. Here we go.

“It was me and my buddies. Middle of the woods. Big hunting trip. They all ran—scared shitless of the damn thing. But not me. I stood my ground. Looked that bear right in the eye and—"

Your mom let out a groan of her own, leaned over toward you, and whispered behind her wine cup, “There he goes again.” Shaking her head, but smiling anyway.

But Caitlyn? Caitlyn sat there with her legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded neatly in her lap, nodding like she’d never heard a more riveting story in her life. Her blue eyes wide, her lips parted just a little, like she was utterly captivated.

"Wow," she said softly when he paused for dramatic effect. “And what happened next?"

Your dad lit up like a Christmas tree. “What happened next? Hell, I scared it off, of course! Big ol’ thing ran like hell. Must’ve known it was no match for me." He slapped his knee, letting out a big belly laugh.

Your brothers exchanged a long, telepathic sibling eye-roll.

But Caitlyn? She just nodded like he’d confessed the cure to cancer. “That’s… that’s really brave of you.”

And somehow, in that moment, watching her charm your family—your chaotic, loud, beer-drinking, fish-failing family—you felt something squeeze in your chest. Something warm. Something terrifying.

She wasn’t just tolerating it. She was choosing it. Choosing you.

Mud, fishing disasters, exaggerated bear stories and all.

Later that night, as you sat together on an old log by the fire, watching the flames flicker against her cheekbones and the stars get tangled in her hair, she nudged your shoulder softly.

“You know… I think I could get used to this."

You turned to her, something huge and heavy and terrifying blooming in your chest. "Yeah?"

“Yeah." She smiled, lacing her fingers through yours. “ I like seeing where you come from. It makes sense now… why you are the way you are."

You laughed, nudging her playfully. “Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Definitely a compliment." A pause, then softer, like a secret: “A very, very big one.”

And that was the moment you realized… you were so, so in love with her.

──────────────────────

After that trip, something shifted. Quietly. Permanently.

It started with a toothbrush. Then a silk robe. Then a drawer. Then two. Her favorite mug. Her preferred brand of tea—loose leaf, of course, because “You are not putting that cheap microwave-heated water near me ever again.”

"It tastes the same," you argued.

She rolled her eyes. "It really doesn’t. I’m fixing this. For both our dignity."

Mornings became a ritual. You’d wake up tangled together, sunlight pooling across her skin, her cold toes tucked under your calf like they had every right to be there.

"Five more minutes," she'd mumble into your neck. “Just… five.” Always bargaining with time. Always pulling you back in.

She’d shuffle into the kitchen wearing one of your shirts—nothing else—while scrolling the news, groaning dramatically every time a headline pissed her off.

"Your country is insane," she’d mutter, sipping her coffee.

"Yeah, well. We make up for it with free refills."

Even arguments became familiar. Comfortable.

"That’s not how you cut an onion."

"It’s fine. It’s rustic."

"It’s a crime against vegetables."

Some nights you cooked together. Other nights it was takeout eaten on the floor, because the couch was covered in unfolded laundry neither of you were willing to touch.

She started humming. Classical. Jazz. Sometimes stupid jingles that got stuck in her head. And when she thought you weren’t paying attention, she’d sing softly under her breath—barely a whisper.

Sundays became sacred. Farmers markets. Bickering over which wine to buy or what flowers would last the longest in the tiny vase on the kitchen windowsill.

"Get the sunflowers."

"They never last."

"Yeah, but they’re happy. Look at them. They're objectively happy flowers."

She bought them anyway. You never argued.

Even silence became something soft. Something safe. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch—her reading some heavy political memoir, you scrolling through nonsense—but her leg always touching yours. Always.

She fell asleep on you more often than not. Her head on your shoulder. Her breath warm against your neck. You’d lower the volume, pull the blanket over her, press a kiss to her temple without even thinking about it.

By then, it wasn’t a question of if you loved her. It was just… a fact. Quiet. Irrevocable. Written into the very fabric of your everyday life.

It wasn’t grand. Wasn’t cinematic.

It was folding her laundry without being asked. It was her refilling your shampoo before you noticed it was running low. It was kissing you goodnight even when you were mid-argument.

It was love.

Carved softly into the routines of your day.

And God… it was the most terrifying, most beautiful thing you had ever known.

──────────────────────

Everything was great.

Until you met her family.

Her father was welcoming—warm smile, firm handshake, the kind of man who knew how to make anyone feel comfortable. But her mother? No. Her mother had that look. The kind that peeled back your skin and saw every flaw you’d tried to hide. Cold eyes. Tense mouth. Perfect posture.

It hit you like a punch straight to the gut—dragging you all the way back to the beginning. Back to those first months with Caitlyn, when you felt... unworthy. Out of place. Dirty.

Her mother’s gaze swept over you like you were a scuff on her polished floors.

“So,” she started, tone razor-sharp but calm. “You’re the one my daughter has been spending all her time with.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement wrapped in judgment, tied with a bow of condescension.

Your throat tightened. “Yeah. Yes, ma’am. I—”

Her eyes flicked over your clothes—simple, nothing designer. Your shoes—practical, a little worn. And then back to your face, where she lingered, unimpressed.

Caitlyn, bless her, immediately stepped in. “Mother,” she warned, voice clipped. “Don’t.”

“I’m simply making conversation,” her mother said, tilting her head with a smile so practiced it felt weaponized. “It’s not every day Caitlyn brings someone... different... home.”

“Different how?” Caitlyn snapped, jaw tightening.

“Oh, darling, you know what I mean.” Her gaze didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “It’s... refreshing, I suppose. To see you… expanding your horizons.”

It felt like acid under your skin. You shifted your weight, suddenly hyperaware of how small you felt in this pristine, echoey sitting room—with its velvet furniture and marble fireplace that probably cost more than your entire apartment building.

Caitlyn’s fingers found yours, squeezing tightly. Her thumb brushed against the back of your hand—reassuring. Grounding.

“I’m not expanding my horizons,” Caitlyn said, steel in her voice now. “I’m dating someone I love.”

Her mother’s smile thinned. “Of course. Love. Naturally.” She stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her silk dress pants. “Well. I hope you understand, dear,”—this, aimed at you, dripping in false politeness—“that our family has certain... expectations.”

Her father coughed awkwardly into his glass, choosing silence.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. Your stomach twisted in on itself, throat tightening until you felt like you were going to suffocate.

Caitlyn stood abruptly. “We’re leaving.”

Her mother’s eyes barely flickered. “Suit yourself.”

Caitlyn didn’t even wait for her father’s awkward attempt at a goodbye. She laced her fingers with yours and marched you out the front door, heels clicking sharply against marble.

The second you were outside—air hitting your lungs like a slap—you pulled your hand from hers. “Cait, wait—”

She spun around. “No. No, don’t. Don’t defend her. Don’t tell me it’s fine. Don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re not hurt when I know you are.”

“I’m not pretending. I just... God, Caitlyn. What was that? She looked at me like I was—like I was some stray dog you brought home!”

“You think I don’t see it?” Her voice cracked. “You think I didn’t hear every little thing she was implying?!”

You shook your head, backing away a step. “I knew this would happen. I knew it. I don’t belong in your world, Cait. I never did.”

“Stop.” Her hands trembled as she grabbed your face, forcing you to look at her. “Stop. Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

“You heard her! You heard exactly how she sees me.”

“I don’t care how she sees you!” she shouted, voice raw, breaking. “I don’t care how anyone sees you. I love you. I choose you.”

Your lips trembled. “I... Caitlyn, this isn’t just about today. It’s—God, it’s every time I step into your world. I feel like I’m holding my breath. Like I have to... shrink. Make myself smaller. Pretend I fit when I don’t.”

Her breath hitched. “Then let’s stop pretending.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

“W-What?”

“Let’s stop pretending we live in two different worlds. Let’s move in together.” Her eyes searched yours, desperate, pleading. “Really move in. No more overnight bags. No more ‘your place or mine.’ Just... ours. A real place. Together.”

You blinked, stunned. “Caitlyn...”

“I’m serious.” Her voice softened, cracking around the edges. “Let’s get a place that’s ours. Somewhere where no one gets to look at you like that ever again.”

Your heart stuttered. “You mean it?”

She exhaled, stepping forward until your foreheads touched. “I mean it. I want... I want a kitchen that smells like us. A bed that feels like ours. A home where you never—never—have to question if you belong.”

Your hands curled into her shirt, gripping tight. “I want that, too.”

She kissed you then. Desperate. Fierce. The kind of kiss that tasted like promises. Like defiance. Like home.

When you pulled apart, breathless, she grinned. “Let’s go apartment hunting.”

“God,” you laughed wetly. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” Her thumb brushed away the tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “I don’t care where it is. Penthouse, shoebox, treehouse—I don’t care, as long as it’s with you.”

And just like that, the fear—the weight of not fitting, of not being enough—started to crack. Not disappear completely. But crack.

──────────────────────

So, apartment hunting you went.

And, God, it was harder than either of you expected.

Trying to find a place that fit both your budgets was like searching for a unicorn. You didn’t want to drown yourself in extra shifts just to afford half the rent—and Caitlyn, well, she wasn’t thrilled about sacrificing every ounce of comfort and freedom she was used to.

It was a balancing act. A frustrating, exhausting, sometimes hilarious balancing act.

“This one’s cute,” Caitlyn said, scrolling through listings on her phone as you both sat on a park bench with iced coffees. “Two bedrooms, decent commute for both of us. Oh… wait. Nope. No pets allowed.” She tilted her head, frowning. “You do want a cat eventually, right?”

“Obviously,” you snorted. “Non-negotiable.”

She grinned. “Agreed.”

The next place had gorgeous natural lighting but smelled like old cigarettes and regret. Another was perfect—until you saw the price tag. Your stomach dropped so hard you thought it might leave your body entirely.

Then, finally, you found it.

A little apartment on a quiet street, right in the middle between both of your jobs. Big enough for the two of you, with space for her obnoxiously large bookshelf, plus a balcony that didn’t feel like it was one loose screw away from collapse. The rent was… steep. Manageable for her, definitely. For you? Not without sacrificing sleep and sanity.

Caitlyn could see the stress written all over your face. She reached over, lacing her fingers through yours. “Listen,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I can cover the rent. You can help in other ways. It’s not a problem for me. Truly.”

But your stomach twisted. Your jaw tensed. “It is a problem for me,” you said, sharper than you meant to, pressing the heel of your palm into your eyes like you could physically hold the headache back.

She sighed, squeezing your hand tighter. “Why? Why does it have to be this complicated?”

“Because I don’t want to feel like a charity case, Caitlyn,” you admitted, voice cracking at the edges. “I don’t want to wake up every day knowing I can’t pull my weight. I don’t want to owe you. I don’t want to owe anyone.”

Her face softened immediately, some of the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Baby.” Her thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Is that seriously what you think this is? Some… some transactional thing? You think I’m keeping score?”

You stayed quiet, staring at the scuffed floor of the real estate office.

“Hey,” she said more gently now, tipping your chin up so you had no choice but to meet her eyes. “Look at me. I don’t care about the money. I care about building a life with you. And that life? It’s gonna look like us. Not like what my mother expects. Not like what anyone else thinks it should be.”

You swallowed thickly. “But it feels unfair.”

“Then let’s make it fair,” she countered immediately. “You handle groceries, I handle rent. You cook, I’ll fix the Wi-Fi when it inevitably dies at 2 a.m. You deal with the plants—because God knows I’ll kill them—and I’ll make sure we always have a bottle of good wine in the cabinet. Equal doesn’t mean identical.”

Your lip wobbled. “That’s… actually not a bad deal.”

A soft smile tugged at her lips. “It’s a pretty damn good deal.”

You sighed, leaning your forehead against hers. “I hate that you’re good at this.”

“I know,” she chuckled, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s very annoying.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, grinning mischievously, she added, “So… should we go sign the lease before someone else steals it?”

You laughed, despite everything. “Yeah. Let’s go get our place.”

And just like that, it became real.

It wasn’t just moving boxes and new keys. It was picking out curtains together and arguing over which plates to buy. It was discovering that Caitlyn folded towels like some kind of military operation—perfect rectangles stacked with mathematical precision—while yours looked like abstract art.

It was realizing that her version of grocery shopping involved imported cheeses and $30 olive oil while you were just trying to find the cheapest ramen.

It was watching her struggle to assemble IKEA furniture, muttering under her breath in perfectly enunciated rage, while you tried (and failed) to hold in your laughter.

It was burning your first dinner in the new kitchen because neither of you remembered the oven ran hot. Eating cold pizza on the floor, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, laughing until your sides hurt.

It was whispered “I love you” in the soft light of the morning, when your voices were still scratchy from sleep.

It was making out, half-tipsy on wine, tangled together on the living room floor because the couch wasn’t built yet—but neither of you cared.

It was falling asleep with her arm draped lazily over your waist, her soft breathing warm against your neck, knowing—really knowing—that this was yours.

──────────────────────

masterlist

[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 🖤

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

[veebeeboo109]

~ Some drabbles of the LADS Men and Hair~

(Done as a writing warmup) ===LADS x Reader===

Xavier:

The least particular about his hair, he couldn't care less how it looks. The only time he even thinks about it is when its starts to get in his eyes. It only happens every few decades, as his hair grows at the same rate that he ages....which is slow.

Like most people he likes ot have his hair played with, but there's something about that just really soothes him. A few gentle pets and he's off to sleep.

Your hair might be different in this life, but he still loves it. He remembers how you used to do it back on Philos, and always gets a little flustered when you do it similarly now.

One of his favorite activities is the little beauty rituals you do, and he's always quietly eager for you to ask him to join him. Quiet evenings after a long day where you put your and his hair up and slather your faces in some new mud mask that smells like roses or lemon. The little bunny headband that shows up next to yours in the bathroom drawer is there inescplicably. And the new set of hair clips. And the under eyes masks.

During those nights, he'll comb through your hair. Taking his time to meticulously untangle each and ever knot, working so slowly you never even feel a tug. It's ritualistic. It's worship.

Zayne:

He's not too picky about his hair, but he likes to keep it groomed. A haircut every three months is mandatory, and he's been seeing the same barber since he was young. There's no fuss or frill to it, just practicality. He can't have crazyu hair products or unruly hair while in the OR.

While he's not vain, he does take some pride in his appearance, and messing up his hair can sometimes irk him a bit. Not enough to remark back, but enough to cup your fac in his hands and give your cheeks a soft pinch. A low warning about ruffling your hair too if need be. He'd never actually do it, but its fun to him to see the little pout on your face.

Your hair is a different story to him. Like other parts of you, its an integral perfect part fo you. The color of it sticking so firmling in his mind that a flash of it out the corner of his eye will have his heart skipping a beat. Constantly in search of you.

When you're together, he likes when its down. He understand that hunters need their hair up most of the time, so it's nice to see you in this way. Like a special treat, just for him.

He'll softly run his hands through it. Tender, tiny touches, never rustling more than a few strands at a time. Whether you're watching a movie, or sitting and working near each other, he'll find some way to fiddle with it. Tucking some out of your face. Adjusting an errant strand. Something.

Rafayel:

The most particular about his hair than the rest of the boys, but by no means fussy. Though compared to others he can be. His hair is used to water, and so can dry out easily. He struggled for a long time to maintain it-- inexplicable frizz and split ends arising enough to make him want to just cut it.

But if looked different...if he cut it, how would you recognize him? A bitter part of him hissed that you weren't here. That this life was one to live without you. But that hopeful part of him....that yearning ember that burned with the vow he made, held onto the hope too tightly.

So he kept his hair as close as he could to what it had been before. To the other times he'd been luck enough to meet you.

Once he's gotten a reputation as a painter and has a public persona, Thomas helps him. Sends him to a stylist who regularly douses him in deep conditioner and oil treatments.

It's a pain, but tolerable. Like most things.

When you come back to him, you take over his haircare. He insists. You set up in his oversized bathroom and help him figure out the deep conditioner. MAssaging his scalp and doting on him.

He's melting sugar in your palm, too spoiled to find anything to complain when you've got your fingers in his hair. It becomes a vice of his. A little ruffle or a pet and his breathing stutters.

He finds hair care for your hair too. A conditioner or clarifying treatment, insisting you take part in the ritual he's subjected to. Only he won't let you put it on yourself- even though you can.

He lingers. Running his fingers through your hair far longer than necessary.

After waiting for so long, any touch is too short. Every moment of contact is prolonged to its absolute length.

Sylus:

He's a man of particular tastes, but has a hard time trusting people. So he can't exactly go to a barber. Letting someone near his neck with scissors or worse a razor? No thanks.

He cuts his own hair, with the help of his evol and a few mirrors. It's taken him a while to figure it out, but it'll do.

He's the one who likes his hair being played with the lost, will go so far as to ask for it. At first its a taunt, a playful jab at you to see if you get flustered at the request.

You're surprised by how quickly he melts when you start touching him. Runing your fingers through his soft silver hair until he's practically purring.

Its a dangerous activity for him, because more often than not he ends with his head in your lap and on the brink of sleep. Unable to stop himself from sinking into the delicious feeling of your warm touch, and the reassuring hum from the linkage.

Since he's one to spoil you, anything you want for your hair is yours to have. A new haircare regimine? Ordered. New hair appliance? 1-Day Shipping. A personal stylist? Done.

[didhewinkback]

the holiday

a the holiday au that explores what that first night in the cottage would've looked like. pls dont sue me nancy meyers

word count: 9k, warnings: smut city baby

---

The fire was slowly building, what were once small embers was now growing into a respectable glow, overtaking the tiny logs you had set in place. You willed it to work faster, to warm up the room as your hand slipped out from under your cocoon of blankets to grab your overly full wine glass, taking a long sip, trying to warm yourself from the inside out. It was fucking cold in here. 

This was fine. Everything was fine. You made the right choice. It was perfectly normal and sane to decide to fly across the world to spend the holidays completely alone in a cottage in the middle of an English town where you knew absolutely no one. To give up your house in LA to a complete stranger in exchange for hers. All because of fucking Derek.

Derek.

A surge of pain rips through your chest, as if you can physically feel your broken heart. No tears spring to your eyes though. You don’t do that. You’ve not done that for years, decades even, something Derek was all too eager to scream at you during that final fight of yours. You wince as the memories swirl around in your brain, the ones you’ve been desperately trying to block out. 

He was following you through the house as you threw anything of his that you could find into his suitcase. 

“Can we just have a civilized conversation about this without you going off the fucking rails?” he ask and you whirled around to face him, cocking a brow at his poor choice of words. “I just mean - please. Babe. Let me explain.”

“Don’t call me what you call her.”

“Jesus Christ -”

“Is this how you expect to have a civilized conversation? You’re being a fucking dick.” you said, turning around to walk away before he grabs your wrist, brushing his thumb along your skin. The way he’s always done. You can feel yourself softening. Damnit. 

“You’re right,” he says, pulling you towards him, though you quickly pull your wrist out of his grasp. “I just need you to talk to me, okay? We can work this out together.” 

“You want to talk?”

“I do.”

“Tell me the truth. Did you sleep with her?” you ask and you can see him physically have to stop his eyes from rolling. You cross your arms, tap your foot. Trying to physically hold yourself together. You’ve gone through harder things. You can definitely handle hearing confirmation that your boyfriend of 2 years did, in fact, sleep with his assistant. “You wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”

He takes a steely breath, hands curling into fists as he looks down at the ground before looking back at you. Every second of his silence already confirms everything you already knew.

“Okay. Fine. In the interest of honesty - yes.” he says, and even though you were expecting it, even though you told yourself you knew it was the truth, you’re not prepared for the way the words rip through you. This relationship had been crumbling around the two of you for a while but you never thought he’d actually do something like this. “Yes. I slept with her.” 

“How many times?” you ask and he groans, head falling back in frustration as he stares up at the ceiling. “Just trying to have a civilized conversation here, babe.”

“I don’t want -”

“Just answer the question.”

“What’s the point -”

“Just. Answer.”

“There’s not really a -” he sighs, shaking his head. “Four.”

“Four?!” you practically shriek, before clenching your jaw, taking a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment. 

The reality practically bowls you over. This man you lived with, this man you’ve loved for the last year and a half of your life - okay, well, you think you love him. You’re not sure you’ve ever actually been in love, like really, fully in love. And looking at him now, at this stupid expression on his stupid face, you know you’ll never love him in any way, shape or form again. He slept with someone else. Four. Times. 

You want to scream, you want to curl up into a ball and cry and cry and cry. But you can’t. And you won’t. You can feel all your defense mechanisms coming up, his eyes never leaving your face as he eagerly awaits a response. 

You clear your throat, your voice completely devoid of emotion as you say: “Thank you for telling me. Now get your things and get the fuck out of my house.”

“Oh you can’t be serious -”

“Bye, Derek.”

“This is how you’re going to end things?”

“You ended things when you slept with someone else -”

“Yeah, but I’m here fighting for it. For us. You’re over there like you don’t even care.” he barrels on, following you back into the bedroom. “You know, if you’re ever wondering why I slept with someone else, maybe it’s because I don’t want to live with a fucking robot all the time. Maybe I want to be with someone who feels things, who actually experiences emotions. You know, someone who actually puts out every once in a while -”

Aaand that’s when you slapped him.

You shake your head, having no desire to rehash the rest of that argument. Just knowing that he is a dick, was probably always a dick and you never have to see him again. You can’t believe you spent two years of your life with that asshole. What a waste. You take another long pull of wine, already reaching for the bottle on the table for a top up. 

You’ll be fine. Once you stop thinking over every little thing he’s ever said to you. Once you stop beating yourself up for not ending the relationship sooner. For even starting it in the first place. You were happy at one point, right? Maybe? Or did you do what you always do, ignore your feelings and look at the logic of the situation. You worked in similar fields, had some mutual friends, you looked good together. It made logical sense. But did it ever feel good? Or right? Did you ever feel loved or cared for by him? Ever? 

Now would be the perfect time to cry. To let it all out. You sit up, take a deep breath and try to squeeze tears out of your eyes. Nothing. Okay try again. Think about how much time you wasted with him, think about how he slept with Christina four. Times. Yes, that hurts, okay, lean into it aaaand still nothing. 

Maybe he was right. 

No. Nope. You’re not doing that. You’re in England! For Christmas! Freezing cold, middle of nowhere England. All on your own. Nothing and no one but Gemma’s dog to keep you company. You can do this! It’s just the first day, you’ll get some sleep and have a lovely holiday starting tomorrow. You take a peek at the clock, groaning when you see it’s only 4:30 pm. Time was moving at a glacial pace. You flop back on the couch, opting to drink straight from the bottle this time. You were in for a long night. 

—

Harry was drunk. Not spectacularly drunk, not really. He had his wits about him, enough to know exactly where he was headed, though to be fair he does know this path like the back of his hand, despite the snow on the ground, the dark night sky, the way the earth spins a bit too much if he makes a sudden movement. It’s fine. He’s fine. ‘Tis the season and all that. 

He’s allowed a bit of fun! He’s a young (ish) lad, his mum has the girls this weekend, he can let loose for once. Sure, he’s been letting loose every single weekend in December but who's counting? Gemma might be, he knows she’s going to give him so much shit for arriving this drunk on her doorstep for the third weekend in a row but hasn’t she been telling him to get himself out there (though she never ever follows that advice herself)? Hasn’t everyone in his life been telling him to go out, meet a nice girl and take her home? It’s not his fault that the idea of bringing anyone over to his home is far more complicated, more paralyzing than anyone realizes, though they swear they understand. Not his fault that the drinks have been providing better company. 

Drinks. Right. He’s had a quite a few. He really, really needs a wee. 

He looks up, relief flooding through him when he sees Gemma’s cottage in sight and he makes a run for it. More like a jog, a clomp through the snow if you will. It’s the least graceful he’s ever looked but it’s the middle of the night and he needs the toilet so bad. Why is it that alcohol seems to move faster through your bloodstream than water? Why can he be fine walking in the snow and now need a toilet more than he’s never needed anything in his life? Life’s mysteries never do cease. 

He runs up to the stoop, pausing to catch his breath before slamming his fist against the door, feeling like his bladder is about to explode. He’s got no bloody idea what time it is, but he knows she’s home, she hardly goes anywhere unless Jasper asks her to. Bloody Jasper. What he wouldn’t give to clock him right on the jaw. He’s gonna tell her that right now. He bangs on the door again. 

“Gem!!! I know you’re in there,” he calls out, banging on the door a third time for good measure and he can see the staircase light come on through the window on the top of the door. He waits a second, rolling his eyes when there’s no movement, pulling up his coat collar as the wind whips through the air. 

“Who is it?” her voice comes through the door and he rolls his eyes. Who is it?! Who else would be banging on her door at this hour? 

“Gem, come on, it’s me.”

“Who are you?”

“Gemma, come on, this isn’t funny,  it’s bloody freezing.”

Still nothing. He groans. This dumb bit she’s doing would be a lot more tolerable if his bladder wasn’t on the verge of actual explosion. He turns to the right, trying to remember where she used to store her spare key, eyes catching on absolutely nothing. 

“Gemma, I’m going to take a leak all over your plants if you don’t -”

The door swung open. Finally. He spins around, fully prepared to push past her and head straight to the toilet when - 

Oh. 

You’re not Gemma.

He’s frozen in place, staring dumbly at the woman standing in his sister’s doorway. At you. Christ, you’re pretty. You’re like, the prettiest woman he’s ever seen. And your eyes. Shit. Wait, why is this gorgeous woman at his sister’s house? Is he at his sister’s house? Yes, he has to be because it's the only bloody house on this path. But what is going on?  He sways on his feet for a moment before snapping out of it. 

“You’re not Gemma,” he says, rather stupidly. “I mean - uh, if you are, then I’m far drunker than I thought.” 

You shake your head, a light laugh leaving your lips that makes his heart twist in his chest.

“No, definitely not Gemma,” you say, quickly introducing yourself. It’s a pretty name, that. And you’re pretty. And he is still very much drunk. And you…are you American?  What’s a bloody American doing all the way out in Surrey? In his sister’s house? 

“I’m staying here for the holidays while Gemma stays in my place in LA.” you explain, almost reading his mind. Unless he said all of that out loud? But he doesn’t think so. They were just loud thoughts in his brain. “Part of this home exchange … thing.”

“That’s not possible. Gemma doesn’t go anywhere. She would have told me.” he says, brow furrowing before he remembers: “Oh, shit, she called me last night and I let it go to voicemail… which I now feel terrible about. Should have answered the bloody phone.” 

He looks back at you, suddenly aware of what this looks like, a strange drunk man banging on your door at arse o'clock in the morning. But luckily for him, you just look more amused than anything. 

“‘M Harry, by the way, Gemma’s brother. Should have led with that. There’s a photo of me and her hanging on that wall next to you if you want, like, proof or summat.” he says, warmth blooming against his cheeks despite the cold winter air whipping through. 

“It’s okay, you look just like her so that helps, though she never mentioned a possible drunk brother sighting,” you say, lips twitching into a smile as your eyes twinkle with mirth. “So, did you want to fuck up her plants or do you need to come inside to use the bathroom?”

Oh right. That. God. The time to curl into a ball and die would be now. But he really, really needs the toilet. 

“Yes, could I?” he says and you’re already stepping back to let him inside and he rushes inside, making a beeline for the washroom, muttering apologies that you shake off. 

He quickly shuts the door behind him and unzips his trousers, quickly kicking the toilet seat up and relieving himself. Sweet jesus. 

He can hear your steps shuffle around outside the door, his mind still reeling from what he has walked into, the last thing he ever expected to encounter on his drunken snowy walk. He still tries to get his bearings as he quickly flushes, washes his hands and hastily rushes out of the bathroom.

“So where did you -” he starts to ask but his limb control is not what it should be and he slams into the lamp on the end table next to the loo - who the fuck puts an end table next to a loo?? - and scrambles to catch it and right it. “Shit - sorry. Um -”

He settles the lamp and looks back up at you, the way you’re barely containing your amusement and right, he’s got to redeem himself now.

“Sorry,” he says with a laugh, shaking a hand through his hair as he makes his way back towards you, leaning against the doorway in a way he hopes looks effortlessly cool but the truth is that he doesn’t trust himself to be able to stand upright on his own two feet, the drinks still swirling through him. “You said Gemma’s in LA? LA, LA?”

“Yeah,” you say, laughing a bit at his incredulous tone. “We exchanged homes for the holidays so she’s there for two weeks and I’m supposed to be here for two weeks but -”

“We’ve not made a great impression on you, have we?” he asks, feeling weak at the knees when you duck your head with a shy smile. No, he might actually be weak at the knees as the room starts to spin, can feel himself swaying a bit. “Sorry - do y’ mind if I sit down? Feel like ‘m about to knock you over.” 

“Oh, yeah.” you say, quickly moving out of his way and letting him make his way to the couch. 

He plops down, heat rushing to his cheeks as he holds his hand out to steady himself. 

“You alright?” you ask gently and he wants to curl up and die a bit. He shuts his eyes for a second and when he opens them, the room is in one place again. 

“Yeah - sorry. I know what this looks like, but I do promise I am Gemma’s very respectable younger brother. Usually more put together than this.” he says, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “Just sometimes I do like to have a drink or two and on the nights that I have more, which is happening a bit more frequently these days, Gemma puts me up on the couch so I don’t have to drive home like this.”

“I get it,” you say softly. “You can definitely stay over tonight.”

“Don’t want to impose more than I already -”

“Please. It’s snowing and freezing outside. I won’t be here much longer anyway.”

“Leaving already?” he says, looking into your eyes. 

“Flights in about” - you sneak a look at your watch - “ten hours.”

“Not what you expected?”

“No, it’s not that it’s -” you shake your head, looking down at your hands before back at him. “I came here on such a whim, booked the entire trip without thinking twice which I never do and I don’t know what I was thinking -”

You cut yourself off, seemingly wanting to get more into it but stopping yourself before you reveal too much. You take a second to look at him, giving him a once over and he has to stop himself from preening. He knows he’s pissed but he’s not so far gone to know when he’s just been checked out. He quite likes the way your eyes feel on him.

“Do you want a drink?” you say suddenly and he has to bite down a smirk. “Coffee? Tea? ….Wine?”

“There’s actually some whiskey in that cabinet,” he says, leaning over the arm of the couch and pointing his hand to the upper cabinet over the fridge. “If y’ want something stronger.”

You smile, your eyes practically twinkling as they light up, and he knows he’s done for. You walk over to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle and then rummaging around the other cabinets until you find two glasses. 

“So, you married?” he asks and instantly cringes at himself for the abrupt way he asked that. You laugh and shake your head.

“No, not in the slightest.” you say and then it’s your turn to cringe. He huffs a laugh as you roll your eyes at yourself, walking the two glasses back over to the couch where he sits, placing the bottle on the end table next to it and handing him his glass. 

“Cheers,” he says, holding his glass up to you as you repeat the salute and clink against his, both of you taking long sips. He wants to say something, anything to keep this night going but also doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, doesn’t want to be reading you wrong.

“So, is it a horrible imposition if I stay? Promise I’ll be out of here before you wake up and you’ll never have to lay eyes on me again.”

There’s a flash in your eyes at that, which he can’t quite read and is desperate to ask you about but you’re already taking another sip, blinking quickly before nodding.

“Not a horrible imposition at all. Let me grab you some -” you put the glass down before slowly swinging around, trying to find the best place to locate a pillow and blankets and he quickly comes to your rescue.

“That cupboard, underneath the Scrabble.” he says, pointing to the cupboard directly across from him and you smile in thanks, making your way over and opening it, holding the Scrabble in place before grabbing the pillow and blanket underneath. 

“So - you, um said y’ did this on a whim?” he asks, hoping to keep this conversation going as he stands up to take off his coat and suit jacket.

“Yeah,” you say, getting a better hold on the bedding in your hand. “I just um - I broke up with someone, yesterday.” 

His eyebrows shoot up at that before he tries to school his expression into something more neural, the drink making all polite social cues fly out the window. His heart skips a beat when you laugh. 

“I know, I know. It was a long time coming though and I just thought it’d be good if I got as far away as possible but all that’s done is make me realize just precisely how miserable I actually feel and what a loser I am so -”

“I don't think you’re a loser,” he says softly. 

“You just met me and you’re drunk off your ass,” you say, raising a brow at him and he honks out a laugh, making you smile. 

“While that may be true,” he says, overemphasizing the word until you giggle, “I’ve got a good sense about these things. If anyone’s a loser in this scenario, it’s whoever you just dumped.” 

“That’s kind of you to say,” you say with a small smile and his lips twitch up in response. You stare at each other a moment and another and -”

“Here.” you say, walking over the bedding to him and he quickly turns to you - oh shit, too fast - catching himself before holding his arms out for the bedding and suddenly you’re so close and smell so nice and have the loveliest smile he’s seen in years and he’s not been this wonderstruck on first sight with someone since, well, Sarah - but no, he’s not thinking about that right now - and he can’t help himself he mutters a soft thank you and doesn’t stop to think for a second before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. 

And - oh. It’s only a second or two but already it’s different - it’s something. Something he thought he would never feel again, something he thought he would only get lucky enough to feel once in his life until the universe had other, horrid plans and this is a lot to put on a first kiss with someone he just met. Not just someone, it’s the woman who’s staying at his sister’s house, christ, Harry -

He pulls away quickly, already mumbling apologies but stopping when he sees the look on your face.

“Would you mind -” you start to say and he’s hanging on your every word, feeling like he’s about to be thrown off a cliff - “trying that again?”

He leans in again almost without thinking, softly pressing his lips to yours and feeling an electric current when you, albeit tentatively, kiss back. He pulls back after a few moments, eyes quickly scanning your face, the way it looks like you’re processing a million things at once.

“Bad?” he asks and you instantly shake your head.

“No, just - weird”

He’s heard lots of things over the years about his technique but he has to admit weird is a new one. You plop down on the couch, still processing, and he places the bedding down and takes a seat next to you, eyes never leaving your face.

“Sorry, it’s just - I haven’t kissed someone new in like 3 years and wasn’t expecting this but I want to…” you trail off, eyes roaming his face in a way that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Maybe if I close my eyes.”

And he’s already nodding, waiting for your eyes to flutter shut as he brings his hands up to cup your face, delicately brushing the hair out of your eyes and he knows this is his only chance. He’s got to kiss the hell out of you or this will be the last time he ever does and he can’t bear that thought. 

He gently presses his lips to your temple and can practically feel you melt under his touch. Good. His lips drag down the side of your face, slowly, surely, before capturing your lips with his, holding you firm to him as he gives you everything he’s got, kissing you so thoroughly it’s almost as if the room starts spinning again. Your hands come up to clutch at his wrists as you kiss him back, both of you getting lost in the moment. 

“Good?” he asks, practically begs, as he pulls away, hands dropping from your face. He needs to know that it was okay, that it was good, that it felt as right for you as it did for him.

“Yeah,” you say breathlessly before you’re leaning in again, wrapping your arms around his neck and he’ll go wherever you want him to go, as long as you keep kissing him like this. Your tongue grazes the seam of his lips and opens up for you, a soft moan pouring into your throat from his as he drags his tongue along yours. He can feel the way you shiver at that and he wants to make you do that again and again and - 

You pull back and he follows suit, not going to do anything more than you want, taking all his cues from you. 

“You know, given that I’m in a bit of a personal crisis,” you start to say and he instantly nods, completely understanding that this is not what you’re looking to do and he starts to put some more distance between you but then you tighten your grip and - oh? “And you’re a complete stranger who walked in here at two in the morning and we’re never going to see each other again and you probably won’t remember any of this-”

He nods, because he gets it, he really does. This isn’t the right time for you and - 

“I think we should have sex.”

What?

He knows his eyebrows must be shooting off his forehead right now and you quickly start to speak again, licking your lips and he;s helpless to not trace the exact movement of your tongue. 

“I don’t think I’ve said this to anyone ever in my life but I just think you’re here and I’m here and as you said, we are never crossing paths again which I think makes this exciting and the holidays are the perfect time to have my first ever one night stand so I think we should fuck.” you say and you’re practically panting after your speech. “If you want.”

If he wants? If he wants? Has he not been as glaringly obvious as he’s felt the last half hour or whatever? 

“I want. I really want.” he says and this time, you’re both leaning in, and this kiss is already different. It’s hotter, almost scorching and deep. He doesn’t want to ever stop kissing you, each curl of your tongue making him press his lips all the more hard against yours. He wants you, he wants you - 

“I should warn you - ,” you say, quickly pulling away and his lips quirk into a smile. This seems to be a habit of yours, the long winded speeches, the cogs of your brain never stopping as thoughts whirl through your mind. “I’m not good at this.”

“You’re - what?”

“I’m bad at sex.”

“That’s not possible.” 

“No, I am.” you say, and your eye contact falters for a moment before looking back at him. “My ex-boyfriend told me all the time -”

“I don’t think he’s got any sense of decent judgment if he was stupid enough to let you go. ”, he says, blood boiling at the thought of some prat telling you you’re not good enough. Which is impossible, just kissing you a few times makes him feel like he’s on fire. He’s surprised at how angry he feels, how protective of you he wants to be and he hardly knows you. “If y’ think for one second you should ever believe a dickhead like that, who had no idea how lucky he was -”

You shut him up with a kiss, pressing your lips to his for a moment before you’re already pulling away again. 

“I’m serious though I don’t want you to get disappointed -” you mumble against his mouth and he has to kiss you once, twice, three times before pulling back.

“Y’ not going to disappoint me. I want to kill that bloke for getting this idea into your head. Y’ dead sexy. Think ‘m addicted to your mouth.”

He leans in again and you slowly pull away when he gets too close, a tease that make heat pool in his stomach. Your hand slides down his tie as you slowly get up from the couch, not breaking eye contact as you walk backwards, slowly grabbing your glass and the bottle of whiskey and he’ll be damned if he looks away for a second, mouth suddenly dry.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Y’ already better than you think.”

You grin at him over your shoulder as you turn to make your way up the stairs and he stands up as if in a trance, grabbing his glass and following you as quick as he can without looking too eager even as he’s already loosening his tie. He’s definitely still pissed, can feel it in the way his feet trip over themselves occasionally but it’s fading, or at least becoming less important than the arousal dipping deep in his stomach as his eyes trail over the back of you, running a loop over your arse and legs that he swears he’ll never tire of. 

You turn to face him once you reach the bedroom at the top of the stairs, both of you finhsing off your glasses in one sip before putting them next to each other on the dresser with the bottle. And then you’re reaching for the bottom of your shirt, already beginning to pull it up before his hands gently grab your hands to stop you.

“Not even going to let me enjoy this bit? Let me do that,” he says and you huff a nervous laugh. His thumbs rub against the backs of your hands as he leans in to press a slow line of kisses along the side of your face and down your neck, tongue darting out to suck at the skin, the unique taste of you. He already can’t get enough.  “Can take our time, can’t we?”

You nod and he hums, leaning in to kiss you, his lips sliding against yours as he slides his hands underneath your shirt, letting his fingers graze against your bare skin of your back before gliding to your front and sliding up, feeling a bit like a fumbling teenager as he palms your breast underneath your shirt but it doesn’t seem to matter to you, given the gasp you let out into his mouth and he’s dying to hear what other sounds you make. 

He pulls away but not too far, pushing the shirt up and waiting for you to lift your arms before pulling it up and over your head and tossing it gracelessly next to the bed so he can get a good look at you. You fidget a little under his gaze before moving your hands to his shirt and he finds his gaze switching from your hands on his chest to your half naked body and he feels like he’s on fire. You make quick work of the buttons, pulling the shirt open before splaying your palms against his chest, small smile quirking at your lips when his muscles jump at your touch, every new move of your hands causing goosebumps in its wake. 

He quickly shrugs his shirt off and freezes when you move your hands behind your back to unhook your bra, the straps sliding down your arms as you pull it off. He was all set to chide you for rushing him but all words have left his brain because christ you’re stunning. 

“Y’ gorgeous. Can’t even believe it.” he says, eyes flickering from your chest to your face, unable to settle on one place, too much beauty before him. You shake your head slightly and he shakes his right back, his hand coming up to hold your chin while he guides your mouth back to his, pulling you flush against him, chest to chest. It’s sloppy and messy in an instant but neither of you care, practically clutching onto each other as you kiss.He feels warmer than he has all night, all year as your nipples graze against his, his hands unable to stop moving across your skin, taking hold of whatever he can. 

All thoughts of savoring the moment have flown out of his head, desperation seeping into his every pore as he feels like if he doesn’t get his mouth on you soon is going to lose his mind.  He licks his way into your mouth and walks you backwards until your knees hit the bed and he gently pushes you down against it. You prop yourself up on your elbows, backing up to make room for him as his hands fall to the waist of your joggers. He presses a few kisses to your belly before looking up at you, almost bowled over by the pure want in your eyes.

“Can I -” he asks and you’re nodding before he can even finish the question and he can’t help but huff a disbelieving laugh that has you flailing out one leg to kick him. He grabs your ankle for a moment, thumb brushing along the bone as his eyes scan your naked body, despite the joggers pooling at your ankles he can’t believe what he’s seeing. You’re fit. 

You move to sit up but he gently pushes you back down, helping you maneuver so you’re laying with your head against the pillows. His hands rubbing up and down your legs as he moves to kneel in between them on the bed. 

He ducks his head down, sliding down the bed as he kisses you before pressing kisses down your cheek and along your neck, your chest, your belly while his hands don’t stop their movements, loving how you feel underneath his palms. He can already feel himself getting too serious about this and will blame the alcohol in the morning, for how intensely he’s approaching this one night stand but he feels desperate to prove himself, to make you feel better than you’ve ever felt. His mouth continues its trail down your body, pressing a kiss to your hip bone, getting closer to where he wants his mouth the most - 

“Oh, you don’t have to -” you say, pressing yourself up on your palms. He freezes, lifting his head up, his hands stilling on your skin.

“Do y’ not want me to?”

“Oh, no. I mean - yes. I mean -  it’s just - I know that’s not like the best part of having sex -”

“Who told you tha’? That bloke you just broke up with?” he asks and you begrudgingly nod. “Thought we already established he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

“Fair enough,” you laugh. “But it’s just - I haven’t had someone do this in so long and I know it’s like tedious and maybe a little gross and not really enjoyable for you -”

“That’s not true. I really enjoy it,” he says and he can see the way the words hit you, a look of awe and pure lust passing over your face in tandem, almost as if he can see the arousal spiking in your veins and oh, he wants more of that. “Not going to do anything you don’t want but ‘m telling you, I want this. And really like it. And want to do it for you. To you.” 

“Okay,” you say, weakly, breathlessly, his eyes distracted by the slight heaving of your chest before he looks back up at you.

“Okay?” he checks and you nod with a small smile that he mirrors, leaning in to kiss you again, to get you more malleable under his touch. His tongue swipes against yours, sucking it into his mouth, a preview that makes you moan, his hands tightening against your skin. His descent down your body is faster this time, he won’t be delayed any longer. His kisses a bit sloppier this time but no less determined. 

His hands slide up your thighs and grip tight to hold you in place as he slides down the bed to bring his face directly in line with your core. He looks up at your face, the way your chest heaves slightly and you desperately nod and that’s all the permission he needs as he dives in with a groan. 

He has no idea the last time anyone has done this for you, likely years given the way you react to the first lick of his tongue, hips punching up into the air and he has to scramble to hold on for a moment before he holds tight again, holding you right where he wants you so he can take you apart. He presses soft kisses to your clit, tongue darting out every so often so he can hear those sweet sounds that have begun to leave your lips. 

“Y’ alright?” he murmurs against you. “‘S good?”

“So good,” you practically whine, back arching as he takes broad licks, wanting to taste all of you at once, pressing down on your hips so you’ll stay right where he wants you as he nudges his nose against your clit. “Fuck.” 

“Doing so good for me,” he mumbles and he can feel your hips twitch, unable to hide the smile on his face, the heat searing through him at how much you liked that. This is already more intense than other hookups he’s had this year, he’s more focussed on getting you off than he he has been on anything but he can’t bring himself to analyze that just now, just wants to keep tasting, keep feeling the jumps of your muscles underneath his palms, the sweet sounds pouring out of you. 

Once he knows you’ll hold still, he brings his thumbs in to hold you open just the way he’d like you. Tongue licking down into your entrance before slowly circling back up to your clit, taking his time to suck it in into his mouth, tongue drawing patterns along the sensitive bud and he moans against you, at your taste, the way your hips keep twitching but you do your best to hold still. Your sounds have started to become more muffled and he looks up to see you holding a hand over your mouth. He reaches up quickly to pull it away, interlacing your fingers and you give his hand a squeeze.

“Let me hear you, love.” he murmurs, kissing along your inner thigh. “Sound so good. Taste so good.”

You let out a loud moan at that and he groans as he dives back in, being able to taste and feel the effect he has on you making him harder than he’s been in ages. He ruts down against the bed a few times for some sweet relief before focusing on the task at hand. You’ve not let go of his hand and keep squeezing it every so often and he brings your interlaced fingers to the top of his head to let your hand rest in his hair. 

“Y’ can pull, darling.” he mumbles against you. “Want to know y’ like it.”

“I do - fuck. Harry -” 

The way you moan his name has him more determined than ever as he takes deep, languid licks of you, kissing along your clit and swirling his tongue around it. You’re a symphony now, gasps and moans, hips twitching as you pull his hair every so often. He closes his eyes, letting himself get lost in this, in you. 

He can tell when you’re about to come, though he has no sense of how much time has passed, finding himself utterly enraptured by you. But your noises are getting higher, your hand locked into his hair and he tightens his grip on your hips, pulling you into his face as he sucks on your clit, hard, opening his eyes at the exact moment you fall apart. Mouth open and loud, eyes closed with a furrow in your brow as your back arches, your free hand sliding along the bedding for something to hold onto, your other hand holding his hair for dear life. He can’t take his eyes off you, even as you come down, your eyes fluttering open as you dry to take some deep breaths, laying your arm across your forehead as you blink up at the ceiling. 

“Shit.” you say after a few moments and he hums in agreement. You’ve still not let go of his hair and he’d be fine to lay like this for the rest of the night.

“Do y’ want another like that?” he asks, grazing his lips across your hip bone as you look down at him almost in disbelief. “Give y’ as many as you want.”

“Where did you come from?!” you ask, making him laugh as he rests his forehead against your belly, just breathing you in. Your hand loosens its grip in his hair, now running your hands through it gently. 

“Can you come up here, please?” you ask softly and he props himself up on his palms, crawling up the bed, up your body until you're face-to-face, your hand sliding down from his hair and resting on the back of his neck. You look the most relaxed you’ve been since he first saw your face, cracked open in the best way possible, stunning smile hasn’t left your face since you came apart on his tongue. 

Your thumb brushes along his bottom lip, wiping away traces of you and he’s quick to suck the thumb into his mouth, making you close your eyes, seemingly overwhelmed for a moment. 

“Was it good for you?” he asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek before pulling back to look at your face. He knows the answer already, not to sound too completely full of himself but he could feel the effect it had on you, could see the pleasure on your face when you came but he needs to hear it. 

You look back at him like you know exactly what he’s doing and he loves that, that he feels like you can already read him so easily despite all the things he’s left unsaid. Makes him think he can say them. Has to keep reminding himself this is just for tonight. 

“So good,” you say softly, raw, open vulnerability on your face. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s done that for me and -”

He cuts you off with a kiss then, can’t bear the thought of you being trapped in this loveless, sexless relationship for years, wants to kiss it all away. Wants to do all he can to undo all the falsehoods your ex told you, all the things he made you feel or never made you feel. 

“Thank you” you’re murmuring against his mouth but he’s already shaking his head, kissing you deeply before pulling away.

“‘S the bare minimum. Don’t want you ever believing a word that bastard said to you.” he says fiercely. He leans in to kiss you again and this time you take over, holding on to his neck as you lick into his mouth, shivering against him when he groans. 

“Was it good for you?” you mumble, already trying to pull him back in for another kiss to protect yourself from his answer but he resists, opting to look you straight in the eye.

“Good for me?” he asks incredulously, can’t believe you’re even asking as if you can’t feel his hard length digging into your thigh. He grounds his hips against you for emphasis, living for the way you gasp, kissing his way up your neck to whisper in your ear. 

“Feel that?” he asks and you shakily nod. “Y’ got me so hard, just from tasting you. Just from making you feel good. Because you did, yeah? Felt good?.”

“So good,” you all but moan out, pulling him back into a kiss as your free hand travels down his body and he feels like he’s on fire, has to focus on kissing you into oblivion because he feels like he is going to explode, almost blacking out when you wrap your hand around him. He has to bury his face in your neck, dragging his lips against your skin and biting down when your next touch comes back wet. 

“What do you want?” you ask and he’s already shaking his head.

“‘S about what you want. Supposed to be welcoming you to the country,” he says and it startles a laugh out of you and he has to pull back to get a look at your face, the uninhibited glee on your face. He made that happen. He wants to keep making that happen. 

You lean in to kiss him again and he’s unable to stop the moan when you thumb over the head of his cock before going back to working your hand over him.

“Want you inside me.” you whisper and he nods, an endless stream of “yes, please” leaving his mouth before you continue: “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, about not being good.”

“None of that, sweetheart, I won’t hear it.” he says, kissing a line along your jaw. “Y’ already so good.”

He never talks this much during sex, maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s you but he finds himself mumbling into your ear about how good you’re doing, how good you are, just for him, living for the way you shiver. All he can think is that his can’t be the last time he has you like this. It’s irrational, it’s irrelevant, it’s insane to be this gone just from getting his mouth on you and you’re flying home to Los Angeles where you live in mere hours and his life is complicated beyond belief but this can’t be it for you two. It can’t be it can’t be it can’t. 

You’ve been steadily kissing down his neck while he let his mind wander and know he needs to get back in the game. If this is it, he’s going to make it the best night of your life.

He slides his hand down your body, fingers brushing over your folds, still soaked and pushing two fingers into you, his ministrations from earlier making the stretch easy. His eyes never leave your face as he moves his fingers in you, taking note of what makes your eyes roll back, what makes your hand lose its rhythm on him. 

“How do y’ want to -?”

“Like this. Want to see you.” you say and he kisses you, quick and deep.

“Need a -” 

“In the drawer. Saw them earlier. ” you say and he pauses with a groan as realization dawns on you both and you start to laugh. “Oh shit. Those are your sister’s -”

“Don’t, please. ‘S disgusting.”

“They’re not used -”

“Stop stop stop.” he says, his eyes shut and you’re shaking with laughter against him. “Gonna make me sick. Or go soft.” 

“Just pretend they’re mine. And we’re in my bed.”

“Christ, I forgot about the bed. Might actually be sick.” 

“Shhh, you’re not gonna do that.” you say, your hand sliding down him again and playing with him just the way he likes. “You gonna pass up the chance to fuck me? Thought you wanted to make me feel good.”

He’s stunned for a moment, looking down at you, the way your simpering gaze never wavers from his and his breath catches in his throat, heat pooling in his stomach. He’s more turned on than he can ever remember being, just staring back at you in disbelief. 

“Told y’ you’re better at this than you think.” he mutters and you laugh, kissing him once before urging him to move over onto his back and he pushes back against the pillows when you straddle him, hands sliding up your thighs to hold you in place despite the surprise on his face.

“Thought y’ wanted -”

“Changed my mind.” you say. “This alright with you?”

“How can y’ even ask that? Of course it’s alright, you’re -”

He’s cut off when you lean over him to open the end table drawer, chests brushing against each other and his hands slide up your back. You grab a condom, completely ignoring the way he grumbles about how freudian this bit feels as you sit back against his thighs. You keep your eyes locked on his as you open the package and slowly roll it down his cock. You lean in, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest and then kissing your way up, mapping a line across his skin with your lips until you reach his mouth. 

It feels like ages since he last kissed you and he lets himself get lost in every press of your lips against his, the way your tongue slides over his lips, the light moan you let into his mouth when he opens up. He’s so lost in the feel of you, the taste, that he misses the moment you start to sink down onto him until he’s already inside. And - fuck. 

Everything is warm and wet and tight. His hands grip you hard as he pulls back to look at you, heart skipping a beat when he sees you’re as affected as he is. That this feels as once in a lifetime for you as for him. The way your bodies sync up like they were made for each other. And sure, you’re both a bit drunk. And it's the holidays and everything gets warped but what if this is different? What if this is more?

It’s a thought that doesn’t leave his mind even as you start to bounce in his lap, and he wants to curse and thank your ex at the same time because he can’t imagine having gone his whole life without experiencing this. Without experiencing you. He can’t stop kissing anywhere he can reach as his hips start to snap up and meet your own, your bodies creating a perfect rhythm without much effort. This is more. 

He knows you feel it too, can see it in the way you respond to his every touch, his every mutter of how good you’re doing, the way your rhythm falters when he punches his hips up just right, lips sliding against yours until it’s too good that all you can do is just breath against each other. He’s not too sex stupid to call this love - he only just met you like an hour ago - but there’s a spark here he can’t ignore, a spark he’s never felt before and he needs it. He’ll do anything to have it. To have you. 

He thinks it when you tire from being on top and ask him to switch and he gets to pin you down against the bed with his body, watch every emotion sweep over your face as he drives his hips into yours, adjusting the angle to make it just right, to make you moan into his mouth the way he has come to crave. 

He thinks it when he feels you start to come again, your eyes not leaving his as you clench around him. When you pull him closer, hand sliding down to his arse to encourage the roll of his hips, whispering in his ear that no one has ever made you feel this good, that he’s the best you’ve ever had until he’s coming, stars behind his eyes as he shoots into the condom and holds onto you for dear life.

He thinks it when your pillowtalk turns into wandering hands and lips and a round two, then three until you collapse against each other, sweaty, content. 

Even the next morning when reality literally comes calling, he still thinks it and wants to do whatever he can to convince you to stay. He goes for casual, an invite to a pub, “if you change your mind” tacked on as if he is someone who could just let you walk out of his life forever and not think twice about it, as if his mind isn’t replaying every instant of your night together, and he has to bite down on his lip to stop himself from begging. 

There’s something about the way you’re fully dressed so early, already seemingly bracing yourself to go back to the real world, your walls already going back up and all he wants is to get you pliant in his arms again, to feel your skin against his skin, your mouth on his mouth. He wants to know you even more than he wants to get back in bed with you, something he swore he would never ever feel again at the funeral years ago. 

He wants you to feel it too but isn’t going to force anything. You said your life was complicated and he knows his life would only add to it. So maybe you just had this one special night, one life changing, mind blowing night and that was it. He forces himself to leave, to remind you of the name of the pub “just in case”, to press a chaste kiss to your cheek when all he wants to do is get your mouth on his again. This was something more…wasn’t it?

When he gets to the pub later that night, absolutely trapped in his own mental spiral, beating himself up for not trying to be more direct. To ask you to stay, at the very least for the two weeks you were meant to. To just see what this is, what it could be. But he’s a coward and he let you walk out of his life. He’s planning on drinking away his depression, to numb himself from focusing too much on the once in a lifetime chance that slipped through his fingers. This person he let get away. Who he will never ever see again. 

Then, he looks up. And there you are, sitting at a table, a glass of wine in front of you. You lock eyes with him and break out into a grin, giving him a shy wave that he returns in a daze. So, you feel it too. This newness, this otherness, this spark. It’s like Christmas came early and he has to stop himself from running over to your table and taking you in his arms. You’ve got time now, even if it's just these two weeks but he’s going to cherish every moment of it. 

He’ll be damned if he lets you get away again.

----

a/n: can u believe i've written something that is not part of the something old universe i simply cannot and i am nervous !! let me know what u think. starting writing this last december and felt like tis the season heres some smut.

[rafeys-sweetie]

𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 - ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

(Rafe Cameron x fem!reader fluff <3)

౨ৎ

on the Netflix home screen and the crackle of the dying fire. A dull orange glow danced across the walls of the dimly lit living room, flickering shadows across the tall ceilings and expensive furniture of the Cameron estate. Most of the lights were off, casting the whole place in a cozy kind of darkness.

Rafe sat on the long leather couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped gently around you. Your body was curled into his side, your head rising and falling softly with his steady breaths. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare to.

Your cheek rested over his heart, and he swore—he could feel the rhythm of your breathing syncing with his own. Your lashes fluttered gently against your cheek, your lips parted just slightly in sleep. Peaceful. Serene. Untouched by all the darkness he used to drown in.

He didn’t know how he got so lucky. He didn’t know what he did to deserve you. But God, he was never letting go.

Not this time.

Rafe dropped his gaze to your face, watching the way your hair fanned out over his chest. A small smile tugged at his lips, something honest and soft. Something new. The kind of smile only you ever got to see.

He bent down and pressed a featherlight kiss to your forehead, his hand sliding gently along your back.

“You’re everything, y’know that?” he whispered, voice low, like a secret he couldn’t say when the sun was up.

You murmured something soft in your sleep, shifting slightly.

The fire gave one last crackle and dimmed into glowing embers. Rafe glanced at the clock.

2:03 AM.

Time to get you upstairs.

Carefully, as if lifting something made of glass, he slid his arms under you and stood. You stirred, your face nuzzling into his chest as he carried you bridal-style across the cool hardwood floor. His bare feet padded quietly up the grand marble staircase, moonlight from the tall windows catching the edge of his jaw and cheekbones.

Halfway up, you blinked sleepily, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“Mmm… Rafe?” you murmured, voice soft and fragile. “What’s going on?”

Rafe held you tighter, kissing the crown of your head. His voice was so gentle it barely touched the air. “Shhh… It’s okay, sweetheart. Go back to sleep. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You let out a tiny hum, already drifting off again in the safety of his arms.

By the time he reached the bedroom, your head was tucked back under his chin, your breathing deep and even.

He laid you down on the massive bed with a gentleness no one ever thought Rafe Cameron possessed. He pulled the blankets over you, tucking them under your chin like it was second nature now. Like he was made to take care of you.

Sliding in beside you, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you back to his chest. He breathed in the scent of your shampoo, pressing another kiss to your temple.

“Never goin’ back to who I was,” he whispered. “Not when I’ve got you.”

You sighed in your sleep, unconsciously leaning closer.

Rafe closed his eyes, the sound of your heartbeat lulling him into sleep not the rush of a high, not chaos, not violence.

Just you. Just peace.

Just love.

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ BEAUTIFUL TORMENT ꒱ OKKOTSU YUUTA X READER

warnings ⟢ dead dove: do not eat. minors, blank blogs, and ageless blogs do not interact—i will block you! yandere. captivity. stockholm syndrome. mental unwellness. dub/noncon. pet play. omorashi + piss play. cunnilingus. butt plug mention. food mentions. afab + gn reader. pet names are: bunny, my love, baby, sweetness. reader refers to yuuta as “yuuta-sama.”

word count ⟢ 2.3k

notes ⟢ this is my (incredibly belated) birthday present to yuuta! it was a massive undertaking to write; what initially began as a tiny drabble spiraled into...well, this. please heed the warnings before reading! and if you do read, be sure to let me know what you think! mwah <3

It’s impossible to tell the time of day in a room with neither clocks nor windows—not that you need to worry your precious little head with keeping time.

Time is not your master, after all.

Your existence is split in two—not unlike that of the earth: ever rotating on its axis, kissed by sunbeams from dawn until dusk, then solemnly accepting the moon’s company. Waiting for your master’s light to cut through the shadowy pitch of night is lonely; basking in his presence during the day is suffocating. You are either with or without him, for he is the extent of your life.

There is nothing else.

Lifetimes ago, you resented him. Aimless yet headstrong, you were a feral stray to others and yourself. You spat in the face of his kindness, biting his hand with all the strength you could muster—a wilfull thing, he affectionately called you, unphased by the bloody rivulets coursing down his forearm. His was the only hand that ever deigned to feed you, but compassion was foreign to your frozen heart. It made your chest ache uncomfortably.

(He still dons the scars you gifted him; memento vivere. Sometimes, when you cling to the euphoria of being cradled as he slumbers, you lick each gnarled patch of tissue—repentant before your sins.)

While your spirit was difficult for your master to forge, he recast your body with ease. Quickly, your nerves memorized the savage shock of pain and the satisfying hum of pleasure. Even though there was a disconnect with your unyielding mind, your body was obedient when you faltered; honest when you lied; meek when you resisted. It was a steep adjustment—melting down and fitting into the mold he created for you.

But you now bear the invisible marks of his torment beautifully.

Reflecting on your past cruelty and ignorance is excruciating. While you’ve done your best to forget, memories claw at your psyche when you’re swathed in starlight, solitary and susceptible. Though you know you belong with him—at his feet or by his side, whatever he deems fit, until death do you part—your subconscious is less convinced.

Dreams are never a reprieve; they haunt you. Remnants of your hatred linger on, your shadow self gnawing on the thought of ripping him to shreds when he’s at his most vulnerable, hair falling across his closed eyes—a picture of soft, boyish innocence. It’s an exhausting ordeal, feeling as though you’re at war in your sleep, never able to relax. Once you awaken, your lungs burn. Something within you cracks open and yawns.

Do you not deserve peace?

Curled up in your bed, half-delirious and longing for daylight, your ears perk at the thump, thump, thump of footsteps descending the staircase.

You would recognize the distinct vibrations of his footfalls even if you were deaf; the reverberations resonate in your bones, thrumming from your crown to your toes. Each muffled thud sets your dormant body alight, kindling the snuffed embers in your core—Pavlov’s tinkling bell. If you had a tail, it would be twitching in anticipation. Your weary heart beats only for him.

My sun.

My sun my sun my sun.

One by one, the chain lock, deadbolt, knob lock, and padlock that keep you sheltered and secure click and clink into place. The doorknob twists as the door creaks open, gingerly shutting seconds later.

“How’s my bunny?” Yuuta’s mellow voice rings out.

Approaching you, he soaks in your huddled figure with a distressed frown. On the nightstand, he notes your empty snack plate and drained water jug.

(When he first takes you in, you outright refuse sustenance, launching a hunger strike. You fail spectacularly, of course. Yuuta pivots with finesse; he makes you taste the bitter dehumanization of being strapped down and force-fed.

Afterward—though you do eat of your own volition—you exercise what little willpower you have, pitching fits during mealtimes.

Secretly, he finds it endearing.

“It’s important that you’re healthy and strong; I want us to spend the rest of our long, happy lives together,” he implores as you eye the food suspiciously.

Fresh apple, carrot, and celery—all sliced into small, bite-sized cubes. It’s how you would prepare food for a toddler to prevent them from choking.

Indignantly, you turn your nose up at his offering, the sight of it making you nauseous. “This is rabbit food,” you spit. “And I’m not your fucking child. I don’t even want to be here.”

“You don’t mean that,” he states with finality.

Refusing to ask for the thousandth time why it has to be you sitting here in his care, you dejectedly open your mouth, allowing him to feed you a tiny piece of carrot.

As you crunch and grind the morsel into a pulp, the sweet, earthy flavor coats your tastebuds. You can’t help but wonder: What good will all these vegetables do if I never see the light of day again?)

Yuuta leans over the bedside, chilly fingertips unfurling around your neck. He slowly brings his lips to your forehead and pauses, testing your temperature—normal.

After he leans back, he speaks. “What are these tears for, my love? They hurt my heart.”

Tender lips sweep away a dewdrop that slides down your cheek; you hadn’t realized you were crying. Under his intense appraisal, you feel small. You feel fragile. You feel safe.

“I missed you, Yuuta-sama,” is all you manage to utter.

At your admission, the fingers on your neck tighten imperceptibly. His thumb strokes your jugular—featherlight. “Oh, my poor bunny,” he sighs, dropping his head to nuzzle the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I’ve made you suffer.”

Wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, you protest, “Please don’t say that, Yuuta-sama. It’s my fault…I’m too needy.”

I missed my sun.

Looking up at you from beneath a curtain of ink, he tsks, nose skating along the curve of your jaw. “No, you aren’t. You’re perfect. My precious—” you gasp when he nips at your pulse point “—most perfect love. There’s nothing I’d rather do than be with you all day every day, endlessly adoring you.”

With a pout, you mumble, “Then why don’t you?”

“You know I have to work to protect you.”

Every bit his spoiled pet, your voice wobbles. “I wish you never had to leave.”

“One day I won’t,” he soothes, dotting a kiss to your cupid’s bow. “But until then, we have to enjoy every moment we have together—right?”

“Mhmm.”

For a few breaths, you lapse into syrupy silence. Your fingers weave through the hair at his nape; his head tucks beneath your chin, his balmy exhales tethering you to the present.

When he withdraws, something like a promise glints in his eyes. Your stomach flips. “Will you allow me to help you feel better?”

Sniffling, you nod, and sit up. The blanket slips down your shoulders, revealing the swell of your breasts. While your room is always an optimal temperature, you’re warmer now that you have relished Yuuta’s sunlight—revitalized.

He sweeps a hand through your hair, and you lean into the calming pressure of his touch. His lips curl into a fond smile. “Up, bunny.”

Without hesitation, you obey, leaving the cosy nest of your bed to stand on the cold concrete. No longer wrapped in linens, your nude form is on display. Yuuta’s lapis gaze sweeps over every sliver of your flesh, ears to soles.

Once, his inspections—both visual and physical—made you cower in humiliation and bristle with anger. Now you preen, your lovely features a placid lake. But a storm stirs the glassy surface as you shuffle awkwardly, suddenly aware of how overfull your bladder is.

Seemingly omnipotent, Yuuta’s hand grazes your belly. “Do you have to pee? You had a lot of water to drink while I was away.”

You grimace. “I do, Yuuta-sama.”

“Let’s get you taken care of.”

Reaching out to grasp your hand, he leads you straight to the bathroom, a pristine pee pad already laid out on the tile. While you know what comes next, you await his orders like an obedient pet, fidgety with expectation.

He caresses your head. “Situate yourself, okay?”

Wordlessly, you drop to the floor. Embarrassment prickles your flesh as you lean back on the palms of your hands, balancing on your tiptoes, legs spread wide apart. Your hips jut out, presenting your slick, needy cunt to Yuuta. He towers above you in this position, irises an oil spill—unfathomable in their iridescent depths.

Shame leaves you in waves and lust takes its place, blurring the edges of all your senses. You look up at his handsome face through drooping eyelashes and swallow the urge to whimper; your clit throbs in wanton need. A sparkling bead of desire drips from your hole, rolling down the cleft of your ass.

Returning to your side, he kneels behind you. His gravity is reassuring. You nearly dribble when he hums, encouraging, “Go on, bunny.”

The dam bursts.

A small stream shoots out of you, experimentally, before a steady jet arcs through the air and hotly puddles on the pad. Head cottony with clouds of relief, your limbs feel heavy yet unmoored—a bee drowning in its own honey. Unbidden, a gasp escapes you, luring Yuuta’s pointer and middle fingers to your petal-soft lips. A flash of slick pink, you accept them inside with a sloppy, wet suck, diligently laving each digit.

Perhaps you could survive on the salt of his skin.

“Such a good bunny,” he coos.

You frown when his fingers pop out of your mouth, but your pathetic whine turns into a shriek as he begins to rub slippery circles on your swollen clit, your piss spraying everywhere. While your flow ebbs to a trickle, the insistent pressure on your bundle of nerves continues. A flower scorched by the sun’s rays, you wilt against Yuuta, inhaling the familiar smell of his detergent.

“Y-Yuu—tah—s…s-ama!” Buzzing like a live wire, a jolt of electricity skitters down your spine.

“Gonna cum? Let go, sweetness. Show me how pretty you are when you just let go.”

A beast of an orgasm ravages your body, tearing its way out of your lungs and core, clear liquid spurting out of you. Only the whites of your eyes are visible as you scream, hips wildly bucking. You soon crumple beneath the weight of your climax onto the sodden pad, the aftershocks tingling through your extremeties, pussy unbearably empty.

Beaming, Yuuta proceeds to suck his dripping fingers clean, his groan stoking your pride. “You did so well.”

Pulse thundering in your ears from the intensity of your high, you shudder, twisting your fists into the fabric of his slacks—an attempt to ground yourself.

“May I have a taste?” Yuuta asks sweetly, maneuvering around you before your leaden tongue can string together a response. He lies between your quivering, piss-splattered thighs, uncaring of the urine that seeps through his dress shirt and pants.

“You’re so messy, bunny,” he teases, breath curling deliciously against your heat; you warble, clenching in anticipation. “Don’t worry—I’ll clean you up.”

He fondles your pubic hair with both hands, smearing a kiss on your mons. Thumbs gliding down, he gently spreads your labia, exposing your still-aching clit. The tip of his nose grazes the delicate tissue, forcing a squeal from you. But it’s as though your reactions don’t reach him—he’s so entranced. He sniffs deeply.

“Beautiful…” he whispers, ardent as a prayer.

Unhurried, he licks a searing stripe from your ass to your tender bud. The sound you make is premature—guttural and half-formed, a hideous thing. But it’s Yuuta’s favorite hymn.

After repeating the silken motion until he has thoroughly savored the tang of your cunt, he settles in and laves at your drooling hole, lapping up your juices. Never keen on making you suffer, though, he soon kisses his way up to where you need him most, bumping his nose against your clit before latching on with a firm suck.

The simmering warmth in both your bladder and your womb rekindle into roaring flames, the smoke signaling your inevitable climax. You thrash and wail and yank at Yuuta’s hair, speech reduced to nonsensical babbles as he switches between suckling your clit and tugging your folds. In a final act of torment, he slides two lithe digits inside you, crooking them upward, plucking the pleasure from your innermost place.

“G—otta, n-nngh…go,” is all the warning you manage before you crest.

You piss again, hurtling right into your second orgasm. Yuuta suctions his mouth to your sex, greedily guzzling the mixture of fluids—cum, slick, and urine—until you’re dry. As he parts from your pussy, a silvery thread still connects you; it pulls taut, then snaps. Yuuta’s smile and praise lulls you to sleep.

The sun is smiling at me.

It takes nearly half an hour for you to regain consciousness.

Ever efficient, Yuuta cleans the bathroom and washes you both before you rouse. When you wake, your limbs are entwined with his, face buried in his strong chest. Despite feeling physically and emotionally drained, you purr, bathing in his attention.

“There’s my bunny. Will you sit up for me?” Without waiting for you to move, he pulls you onto his lap so that you face him; you try to ignore the way his bare cock rubs against you. “We need to get you hydrated—yeah, that’s it, baby. Drink it all. Good, good.” He holds the glass for you as you chug its contents, stray droplets dribbling down your chin. Keen on pleasing him, you finish it without complaint, ignoring your stomach’s protests. “Perfect.”

He wipes the excess water away, a mother tidying her child. No longer able to neglect the hardening length against your ass, you rock your hips, pulling an airy laugh from Yuuta.

“So greedy,” he murmurs, massaging the fat of your thighs. “Does my bunny need their tail?”

Shyly, you nod, lips parting as a single fingertip grazes your tight rim.

Yuuta doesn’t need to ask for permission. You would do anything for him, even if it meant your ruin. He’s your savior—your everlasting sun; simply being in his presence is more than enough.

And if you’re bound to get burned? At least you’ll be eternally his.

[redwing4life]

Fire Alarms

CHAPTER 5 | ASHES TO EMBERS

can be read as a stand alone (except tiny mention of previous chapter) :)

PAIRING: Firefighter!Neighbour!Bucky x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: Angst, apartment fire, reader gets care from paramedics, smut - dom bucky, sarge kink, oral sex (m recieving), throat fucking, dirty talk, unprotected PinV sex, breeding, cum swallowing, rough bucky, semi-public play, male masturbation, small lactation kink, squirting, cock warming?, implied aftercare. lmk if i’ve missed anything :)

SUMMARY: Bucky doesn’t know how he got so lucky, but luck only lasts so long. When Bucky’s crew are called to a fire a little too close to home, your neighbour puts everything on the line to keep you safe, even your relationship.

WORD COUNT: 14,214 (buckle up folks)

A/N: i’m so sorry this has taken so long :( but i hope it’s worth it <3

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Bucky doesn’t know how he got so lucky.

Like, seriously, what the hell did his dumb ass do to deserve a girl like you, a girl who is so beautiful inside and out that he finds it hard to breathe each time his phone vibrates in his pocket, heart racing at the mere thought of a text from you.

He’s had an abundance of those this morning, a new message waiting for him after each call the crew is dragged out to, and it’s breathing more life into him than his oxygen tank ever has.

From your flirty texts to the most adorable selfies, you’ve had a grown man - a firefighter nonetheless - giggling and kicking his feet all day, and it’s fair to say the crew has noticed.

“Cap, he’s lookin’ at his phone all weird again!” Sam jeers from his seat across and to the right of Bucky, his tone uncannily similar to that of a child telling on his friend to the teacher.

“Again, Buck?” Steve asks from the front bench behind him. “We just got back in the truck!”

It’s true, after putting out a small office complex kitchen fire, the team had only just climbed back into the truck to head back for a well earned break.

Natasha nudges Bucky’s shoulder, wiggling her eyebrows. “What’s she said this time to get you all blushy?”

The unimpressed glare at Sam slowly morphs into a timid glance to his lap, “She hasn’t actually replied for a while.” His voice is so meek that it’s hard for Steve to believe it’s his best friend speaking.

“Nat, is he looking at that photo again?” Steve asks, prompting the redhead to fight Bucky for a peek at his phone screen. She might be smaller than the brunette, but there’s yet to be anyone who can stop her from getting what she wants, even the six foot, two hundred pound hunk of muscle beside her.

Bucky releases a disgruntled murmur when Nat manages to snatch his phone from his grasp, his eyes rolling to the sky when she confirms what Steve had suspected.

“Man, you are so whipped!” Sam laughs, unperturbed by the kick to his shin from the less-than-impressed firefighter across from him. Steve is chuckling from the front seat, hell, even Clint is biting back a grin, his eyes trained on the road as he listens in to the commotion behind him.

“Shut up, Wilson.” Bucky groans. “Same goes to you too, Rogers. Or have you forgotten what I walked into in the turnout room last week?”

Sam’s face falls into one of genuine sincerity, gasping at Bucky’s words, “What happened in the turnout room?”

The Captain has long since been silent, the threat of his secret being spilled sobering him up immediately.

“Yeah, Cap, what did happen in the turnout room?”

Beside him, Natasha has gone suspiciously quiet; if Bucky didn’t know why, then he may not have noticed the dusting of crimson across her cheeks, but he does, and it brings a smirk to his lips.

“What happens in the turnout room, stays in the turnout room.” Steve asserts, though Sam isn’t ready to give it up yet.

“Oh come on, man! You know it’s not healthy to have secrets in the Firehouse!”

Content that the focus isn’t on him anymore, Bucky returns his attention to his phone where the ‘Delivered’ sign has yet to turn to ‘Read’. Where’d you go, doll? He thinks to himself, the sound of his crewmates bickering drowned out by the nagging voice in the back of his head saying something is wrong.

“Drop it, Wilson.” Nat warns, a stern look in her eyes that only adds fuel to the fire.

“What crawled up your ass and died, Romanoff?” Sam says before his jaw drops in shock. “You were there too, weren’t you?! Oh my god, this is-“

The familiar alarm rings through the cabin and Clint happily tells everyone to shut up so they can hear dispatch properly.

Fingers stilling above the keyboard on his phone, Bucky listens to the description and location of the fire and his heart drops.

It’s his address.

It’s your address.

“Buck, is that-“

Laced with fear, your name falls from Bucky’s lips and Steve wastes no time in ordering Clint to step on it.

10:09 AM

You must have dreamt the whole thing.

It’s the only plausible reason for waking up to a cold bed, body aching for a touch you fear you may have never felt. Sheets tangled between your legs, you lay sprawled across the bed with a hand laid flat at the spot you were so damn sure Bucky laid in the last time you were awake.

You dig the heel of your palms into your eyes, hoping to rub away the remnants of the best dream of your life, and wince at the swarm of colours behind your eyelids. By the time you drop your hands beside your head, you’ve convinced yourself that last night never happened and the dull ache between your thighs is nothing but a warning that your period is due.

Fuck this. You think, a groan rising from your dry throat, and push yourself to sit up when you catch something in the corner of your eye.

A glass of water sat on your bedside table and a bottle of painkillers you usually keep in your bathroom cabinet perched by its side; while their sudden appearance draws your brows together, it’s the folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across it that really intrigues you.

Sliding the note out, you recognise the handwriting to be Bucky’s, and for the first time since you woke up, you let yourself hope that last night really did happen.

As hard as it is to leave you, I’ve got to get to work. I didn’t want to wake you as I left, you looked so damn cute and I didn’t wanna disturb you any more than I already had. I’ll be home at 6. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you, staring with letting me fuck you while you wear my henley and then maybe we can remake some of those dreams you’ve had of me ;). Jamie. P.S. hope you’re not aching too much.

Holy motherfucking moly.

Overwhelmed with schoolgirl giddiness, you squeal and kick your feet, only to be reminded that you are, in fact, aching very much. Very, very much.

A smile that could send Bucky Barnes to his knees rests upon your lips seemingly frozen in place. Even as you throw your head back to take the painkillers, your grin remains steadfast; for a moment, you wish your neighbour-turned-lover was with you to relish in your first morning together, but one glance at Bucky’s note remind you that he’ll more than make it up to you.

Checking the time as you unlock your phone, you know Bucky is over four hours into his shift by now, and since he’s the only thing on your mind, you can’t help but wonder if he’s as consumed by thoughts of you as you are of him.

It takes only a moment for you to take matters into your own hands, fingers running through your tussled hair as you open your phone camera. It’s quick, and messy, but the grin that stretches from ear to ear will tell Bucky all he needs to know.

Ignoring the brief insecurities that you’re embarrassing yourself, you quickly send him the photo of yourself and choose to be bold for once.

The familiar swoosh sounds as your photo delivers and you lock your phone before crawling out of bed to get a shower. You’re barely through your bedroom door when your phone pings in your hand.

James: Why the fuck did I go to work today?

Laughing, you type your reply back.

You: Because it’s your job and there are buildings on fire?

You take two steps and he’s replied already.

James: Let ‘em burn

Bucky smells the smoke before he sees it, the billowing clouds hidden by familiar high rise office buildings, the ones he drives past to and from work every day.

The truck turns down your street but Bucky hardly notices; he can hear his heart beating in his ears and he’s dropping curse word after curse word, his phone playing your voicemail for the fourth time in two minutes. Three blue texts of increasing urgency sit unread on his screen and it takes everything he has to not launch it out the window.

You’ve been a text away all morning, why now have you taken a fucking sabbatical from your phone?

“Are you sure she’s home today?” Steve asks, interrupting Bucky’s spiralling thoughts.

“It’s her day off and she’s been texting me all mornin’. Y/n’s in that building, Steve!”

The calmness of Steve’s tone reminds everyone why he’s their Captain, “Well I’m sure she’s safe, Buck. She’s bright, she’ll have gotten out by now.”

Stomach churning, Bucky gulps his nerves down. He glances at Nat when she pats his shoulder before turning back to see Sam nod, his eyes silently telling Bucky to pull it together, that now is not the time to lose it.

‘Pullin’ up!” Clint calls and the truck rolls to a stop, parking just behind Chief Fury’s car, who is already taking command of the scene and ordering around the first and only other squad to have arrived yet.

The world is a blur as Bucky glides through the scattered crowd to reach Fury, his words tumbling out of his mouth before he’s even within hearing range.

“Take a breath. What is it?” Fury says.

“I- I think my- this is my- I live here and-“

“I said take a breath, Barnes.” The chief interrupts him, placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder to ground him. He’s never seen Bucky like this before, not since… not since the fire that haunts his dreams.

“Chief, this is my place.” The brunette speaks clearly now. “I think my girl is in there.”

“Okay.” Fury nods and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder reassuringly. “Search the crowds, see if she’s with any of the other residents. And keep me updated!” He calls after Bucky who’s already rushing to the clusters of people across the road.

Face after face flashes by but none of them bare the eyes of the girl he’d give his life for. The weight in his chest grows heavier and heavier as he runs out of people to check and finds himself at the fire exit of the building’s main staircase where the others have already headed inside.

“She’s not here, Sam!” Bucky shouts at his crewmate who’s guiding a few stragglers out the exit.

“It’s okay, there’s still people evacuating, she’ll get out. Just help me for a sec, Nat said she heard kids coming through!”

Bucky turns to the dwindling stream of people stumbling out the fire exit; he takes a breathe and scans the residents passing by, asking if anyone’s seen you but it’s like talking to a brick wall. Everyone is too consumed by their own worries to care about a girl they don’t know.

He goes to head back to Fury when he recognises the woman who lives across the hall from you, her two little girls clutching onto her for dear life as they stagger through the doors.

“Cassie! Hey, Cassie!” He bellows over the commotion, running to take her eldest daughter off her hands and usher them to the medics.

“Oh my god, Bucky!” She sighs in relief at the friendly face. “Thank goodness, it’s- it’s getting really b-bad in there.” She says, spluttering through her words while Sam stands at her side.

“Yeah I know, look, have you seen Y/n? I can’t find her.”

“Yeah she helped me carry the girls down!”

Bucky’s eyes widen, head snapping behind him to search for any sign of her. “Then where is she?”

“Well we reached the doors and she handed me Maya and said she had to go back for something and ran off.” His heart drops. “I’m sorry, Bucky, I didn’t get chance to tell her not to go.”

Sheer terror controls his body and he’s storming over to Fury before she’s finished her apology, not willing to waste any more time to get his girl. Sam thanks Cassie and trails after him till they’re in front of the Chief.

“Fury, Y/n’s still in there. Let me get her, please!”

“Okay, Sam go with him. You’ve got five minutes before I pull my men out of there, this thing’s gonna blow soon.”

“Yes, sir.” They both call as they pull their masks on while they run. Bucky swears, he’s never put his kit on so quickly in his life, but the smoke pouring out the fire exit doors is growing thicker and thicker by the second, and you’re in the middle of it.

2:38 PM

The show you’re watching has long since been forgotten, your mind wandering to the dreams your neighbour is so keen to reenact. Bucky’s promise to make up for his absence ignites the same fire you felt last night. That, and every other night you’ve had your fingers knuckle deep in your pussy thinking of him.

You’re reminded of one specific dream - the one you had the night he was sent home from work - where you’d broken into his apartment for ice cream; picturing his place next door has you sat upright, suddenly remembering that Alpine is probably sat in his apartment waiting for him to come home. That poor cat won’t have seen him since you invited him over last night.

Hoping she doesn’t resent you for stealing Bucky for the night, you grab his spare key from your side table and rush to check on the little white ball of fur. The familiar scent swarms you as you step inside his apartment, quickly heading to the kitchen to find Alpine.

You take a photo of Bucky’s kitchen, complete with Alpine’s little head popping out from above the fridge, and send it to him.

You: Really shouldn’t have given me a spare key, Barnes

James: Don’t even think about eating my donuts

Sure enough, a box of donuts sits on his counter top and it makes you laugh that the only thing that’s worried him about you letting yourself in, is that you’ll steal his food. God, he’s perfect.

You: You’re a firefighter, not a cop!

James: Didn’t know the donut police was out, my bad

You giggle before hearing the pitter patter of paws jumping from the fridge to the kitchen island wear she snuggles up to your torso and purrs.

“Hey, girl. Sorry for stealing James for the night.”

Alpine meows beneath your light scratches and you grin, “I’ll take that as a sign of forgiveness, Alps.”

Her cuteness has you getting your camera out to take a photo of the two of you, cuddled up together on the island.

You: Cute security guard you got here

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky’s heart is melting in the middle of the firehouse common room, so much so that he doesn’t even bother with a jokey reply.

James: My girls ❤️

Unbeknownst to Bucky, your heart is melting in the middle of his goddamn kitchen, so much so that Alpine might need to call 911.

James: Fuck I can’t wait to come home to you

You blush like crazy at the second text.

You: You do have some making up to do, Barnes

James: Yes, Ma’am!

You: Oh, and also, you might wanna pick up some more donuts on the way home ;)

You send before stretching to grab one from the box, quickly taking a photo of you biting into one and sending that too.

James: Knew I shouldn’t have given you that key

You’ve done this before, you know what you’re doing. You’ve done this before, you know what you’re doing. You’ve done this before, you know-

“Shut up, man! You’re wastin’ your breath.” Sam shouts.

“What?”

“Quit your ramblin’ we got work to do!”

Not realising he’d been talking out loud, Bucky frowns beneath the polycarbonate of his mask, a movement Sam has no chance of seeing in their current environment.

Air thick with smoke, the pair race through the plumes as fast as their legs will carry them; you’re up there, they both know it, and there’s no time to waste.

The ring of the fire alarm has long since faded by the time Bucky bursts through the door of the fourth floor, Sam close on his tail. If they thought the stairwell was bad, this corridor is hell on earth. Visibility is a distant memory in here, smoke so heavy and black that their flashlights reflect straight back at them. The only sign that they’re actually moving is the distant, faint orange glow growing stronger with each step and the heat crawling further beneath their gear.

“Fucking Garvey.” He grumbles, realising the broken sprinklers are the cause of this state.

Bucky turns behind him to face Sam. “You clear this room, I’ll do Y/n’s!”

“On it!”

The pair split up as Sam kicks down one door and Bucky heads to yours, only a few feet further ahead. Turning his back to the door, he lifts his right knee and fires his boot backward, successfully cracking it open for him to push inside.

The smoke isn’t so bad in here and Bucky gets to work quickly, jogging over to your kitchen when he doesn’t see you at the living area.

“Y/n, call out!” Bucky bellows, his mask slightly muffling his words. You don’t answer, so Bucky starts slamming open any and all doors in the apartment in the hope that you just can’t hear him.

“Y/n! Where are you?” Your bathroom is empty and he moves to your bedroom. “Call out, Y/n!”

No answer. Goddamn it, sweets.

Panic rises in his chest when he sees your empty bowl of cereal on the coffee table, a show still playing on the TV.

Bucky tries his luck shouting once more, “Firefighter, call out!”

The only sound to respond is the billowing flames down the hall, wood crackling beneath the heat.

“Please, baby, where are you?” He knows he’s talking to himself at this point and it terrifies him. Biting back a strangled yell, Bucky clenches his eyes shut in attempt to ground himself.

When he opens them, he starts scanning the room for any sign of where you’ve gone. The bowl of cereal, your missing slippers, keys on your side table, no phone anywhere, lamps still-

Wait.

The keys. There’s one missing. His spare.

It dawns on him then, and his heart drops, knowing exactly where you are.

Alpine. You went back for Alpine.

4:29PM

Your blood runs cold when you’re woken by thudding at your door, a muffled cry of your name seeping through its cracks. With a racing heart, you toss your blanket off your sweat-ridden body and rush to your feet, mind trailing behind you while you run to the door.

“Just a sec!” You call out, desperately trying to piece together what’s happening as you approach the door. You slide the lock free, swing the door open and frown.

It’s Cassie, the young mom who lives in the apartment opposite with her two little girls; her head is turned over her shoulder and she’s shouting. You follow her line of sight to find who you guess to be her eldest daughter, Grace, peering through their front door - you can’t tell for sure, you’re still waking up and things are a little foggy. Very foggy, actually.

Having babysat for Cassie a few times, you panic that you’ve forgotten you’re doing so today. “Hey, Cass-“

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“What?” You murmur, sleep still clutching onto you for dear life, and your frown deepens.

“Are you okay? Please- I-“

“Yes, Cassie, I’m fine.” You interrupt her and place your hands on her upper arms, trying to ground her. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a fire!” She points down the corridor and your attention follows. “I don’t know when it started, I- I was in the bathroom with Maya- I don’t know! I just- there was smoke coming in and- and…”

The confusion racking your brain turns to panic while a coldness soaks your body from head to toe, fear settling into every inch of you. Fire. Smoke. Heat. Everything clicks like a series of switches. The fog you thought was remnants of sleep is actually thick grey smoke - that’s why you couldn’t tell which daughter it was. In fact, that’s why Cassie was screaming, she was trying to get Grace back inside. Raising a hand to your forehead, you swipe beaded droplets of sweat off your brow and recall how warm the door’s lock and handle felt beneath your fingers.

“… hitting the fire alarm but it’s not working so the sprinklers won’t come on and-“

“Okay, hey, it’s okay!” You comfort the frantic mother and scan the hallway as you gradually come back to the present.

“Have you tried the fire alarm?”

“Yes! Yes! I tried but it’s broken, it won’t start!”

“Fuck,” You whisper, mentally damning Mr Garvey for his shit-ass death trap of a building.

Cassie starts coughing heavily so you reach to her top and lift the collar till the cloth covers her nose and mouth. With consciousness finally returning fully, you close your door behind you and guide Cassie back to her apartment.

Inside, her daughters sit crammed into the corner of the kitchen, clutching onto each other tightly. You hash a plan out with Cassie before sending her to get cloths and soak them in cold water for you all to put over your faces. The smoke in her apartment isn’t too bad, but you’ll need them for when you leave.

You jog over to the window and look out just in time to catch Chief Fury jumping out of his car, barking orders down a radio, and scanning the scene. Relieved that someone’s already called for 911, a sigh of relief tumbles from your lips and your eyes close briefly. Smoke scratches at the back of your throat, sparking a heavy coughing fit that leaves you breathless; when you realise you’re not the only one coughing, you turn back to the girls who are still sat in the kitchen.

“Hey, girls, come here!” You call, rushing back to the kitchen to guide them to the window where you pick Maya up and place her on your hip so she can see outside. “See that man there?” You point to Chief Fury, “He works with Bucky. They’re gonna stop the fire for us and make sure we get out safe.”

There’s little time for the girls to celebrate before Cassie returns with wet tea towels and jumpers. Together, you get them wrapped up and explain what’s about to happen; unsure as to what might be happening outside, you tell them to keep their eyes closed and their tea towels over their mouths and nose until their mom says otherwise.

With Grace on your back, you turn to Cassie with a reassuring smile. “It’s not far to the stairwell, they’ll be okay, I promise.”

She nods and adjusts Maya on her hip before pressing loving kisses to the girl’s heads. Using Bucky’s henley to cover the now hot metal door handle, you push it down and open the door for your neighbour to walk through.

The hallway is already darker and hotter than just minutes ago, the billowing black smoke rushing to your eyes and making them burn. Aside from the faint orange glow to your left, there’s little visibility, but you know where to go. You hike Grace up your back further and step out behind Cassie, tea towel clamped tightly over your mouth.

“Nearly there!” You bellow, voice barely breaking past your masked mouth. Come on, come on, come on… you whisper to yourself as your feet carry you step by step closer to safety. Finally, you reach the doors to the stairwell and nearly crash into the back of Cassie since you can hardly see her.

Carrying the girls, the pair of you slip through the door and hurry down the stairs. You’re 4 stories up so you count each floor as you go, keeping track of where you are. Turns out, the alarms and sprinklers are working on every floor but your own. Fuck you, Mr Garvey.

“Y/n! Wait! Y/n!” Grace calls from behind you and you rake our neck to look at her, realising then why she’s trying to stop you. “I dropped my towel!”

Without thinking twice, you tear yours from your face and press it to her mouth knowing there’s no time to be searching for hers. You keep going and catch up to Cassie before she even reaches the first floor. As your throat starts stinging again and your thighs begin to burn, you remind yourself that it’s not long until you’re outside in smoke free air.

“One more floor!”

“Yep!”

Being so close to the exit has you thinking ahead, thinking about seeing Bucky and running into his arms, thinking about how worried he’ll have been for his girls, thinking about how relieved Cassie will be to-

Wait.

Bucky’s girls. There’s two of you.

It dawns on you then and your heart drops, knowing you can’t leave yet.

Alpine. You need to go back for Alpine.

Each stride closer to Bucky’s apartment turns the red flames to orange and the orange flames to yellow. Heat radiates from the apartment opposite his as flames etch their way up and out of the front door; assessing the pattern of the fire, Bucky calculates how much time they have almost as fast as he breaks down his own door.

“Y/n! Where are you!?” He bellows from the constraints of his mask, blue eyes scanning every inch of his smoke filled home for the one thing he can’t live without.

“Kitchen!”

Without even registering what you’ve said, Bucky is running to the source of your voice, gear clanging on his back as he moves.

Thick smoke swirls around him on his way, clearing enough for him to just make out your silhouette flailing away.

“Doll!” Bucky shouts, panic rising in his chest at your frantic movements. “Y/n, call out! Are you okay?”

“I’m here! Im okay!” He hears.

Finally reaching you, his hands reach for your upper arms like iron to a magnet. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, James, it’s Alpine,” You’re pointing up to fridge, pausing to cough into your arm before continuing, “she’s not coming down!”

“What?” If you could hear the incredulous tone Bucky uses over the roaring fire, you show no signs of it. He can’t help but gawk at you in disbelief; you were seconds away from escaping a roaring blaze and you’re more focused on a damn cat? Do you even realise what’s happening?

“James, help me get her down!”

Your urgent order has the firefighter shaking his head free of thoughts that are better kept for later. The clock is ticking and the fire is spreading faster each second, so he jumps into action. Clambering up onto the kitchen counter, Bucky swipes his hand over the top of the fridge until the familiar white fur of his cat greets his palm.

“That’s it,” Bucky coaxes Alpine out from her hiding spot. Clearly unable to identify her owner beneath his gear, she leaps down into the safety of your arms and receives doting kisses in masse.

Bucky climbs down. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The short and sharp order has you scurrying to the front door where the heat creeps up your bare legs with haste. Over your shoulder, you hear the electronic beeps of your neighbour’s radio intermittently while he talks to Chief Fury.

A hand on your shoulder brings you to a halt. “You’ve got two minutes, Barnes.” The chief’s voice is crackling much like the fire behind the door.

“Yes, sir.” Bucky replies before turning to you, “Wait here.”

Following his orders, you wait with increasing nerve as Bucky peers behind his front door to check on the fire. For the first time today, he’s grateful the fire is loud enough to drown out his cursing of the situation; the last thing he wants is to scare you, but the flames have encompassed the door of the apartment opposite and have climbed to the ceiling of the hallway. Escaping now means baring the blaring heat with no protection for his girl to wear.

Pushing the door shut, he turns back to you. “We have to go through, it’s the safest way.”

“You want us to walk through fire? Are you serious?” The light quiver of your chin tells Bucky you’re more scared than you care to let on. “What about the windows? Can’t we-“

“No, doll. There’s not enough time to get the truck round this side of the building. I’d give you my mask but we have don’t have time. We have go this way.”

You’re shaking your head as he speaks, nerves racking your body like a virus and you subconsciously clutch Alpine tighter to your chest for comfort. Bucky steps closer to you with reassuring eyes, hoping the closer distance will let you see him past the polycarbonate.

“Hey, you trusted me when we got stuck in the lift and we got out without a scratch. I’m asking you to trust me again, sweets. Let me get you out of here, please?”

Battling through his mask, the desperation laced beneath his tone is enough to turn your shaking head into a nod. From that point on, you’re a passenger in your own body.

Instructions to keep your face covered, to hand over Alpine despite her meows in contest and that under no circumstances should you ever let go of Bucky’s hand. Numerous checks that you understand what he’s saying, followed my numerous recitals of his rules right back at him.

There’s no way of knowing how you managed to remember those rules, let alone abide by them, when your mind has been on autopilot for the last few minutes.

You know it’s time to go when you feel two squeezes on your right hand: Bucky’s signal. What follows is a blur of black and orange, hot and cold. Bucky covers you from the fire and leads you out to the stairwell where he tucks you into his side. You run down each flight of stairs until you burst into the chaos outside.

Bucky rips his mask and helmet off and shouts for a medic, his arm never leaving your shoulders as though there’s still a fire he needs to protect you from.

A paramedic who Bucky called ‘Pepper’ rushes over and reaches to hold you herself before realising she’ll need to fight Bucky to do so. Knowing that’s a battle not worth fighting, she guides you both to the back of an ambulance across the road.

On your way, a familiar face breaks through the hustle and bustle with relief etched across his features. Steve pats your shoulder in support when Bucky speaks up.

“Steve, can I-“

“Go be with her, Buck.” He says firmly like it’s obvious, earning a single, though grateful, nod in return.

For the past twenty minutes, you’ve watched the world fly past you; left and right, high and low, there’s something happening everywhere as the Fire Department work to put out the blaze and move people to safety. With the sun dipping behind the city skyline, the damage to Mr Garvey’s building fades away as night draws in. He’s yet to make an appearance, Mr Garvey, though you doubt he’s jumping at the opportunity to face his tenants, let alone the burly firefighters that litter the lawn.

It’s fair to say the crew are pissed. Sure, a lazy landlord running a beat-up, hazardous complex would rile them up any day of the week - but when that complex is home to ‘two of their own’ as Nat put it? Well, the only thing holding them back is Chief Fury’s stern warning to do things by the book. Though he did order a drive by for Mr Garvey once they figure out where he lives.

While seemingly everyone in sight is busy helping out, you sit perched on the back steps of an ambulance, accompanied by a sleepy Alpine and a grumpy Bucky. He’s long since forgone the fire jacket, clad just in a navy t-shirt and suspenders holding up his fire pants.

The rhythmic hum of the oxygen machine behind you is driving you crazy, but a certain firefighter isn’t keen on you taking your mask off just yet. You wonder if he’ll ever let you take it off.

A clanging in the distance awakens Alpine enough for her to relocate; the soft white cat clambers into your lap and curls up before going straight back to sleep. Unfortunately for you, the damn oxygen mask is getting in the way of everything, and you can’t see past it to watch Alpine.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, his tone just as flat as it’s been since you escaped the building, as you tug the plastic from your face.

“It’s annoying, Sarge. And fucking uncomfortable.“

Blue eyes barely glancing at you, your neighbour’s face remains stoic and cold. He finds you calling him ‘Sarge’ pretty damn annoying, even if his dick thinks otherwise; ever since you clocked on to people addressing him by his title, you’ve being teasing him, but the name has slowly turned sour on your lips the longer he acts so coldly toward you.

“It’s not meant to feel like a spa treatment, put it back on.”

You roll your eyes, not that he’d notice. “I don’t even need it anymore!” You’re sick of being treated like a child by the man who was tongue deep in your cunt just under 24 hours ago.

For the first time in a while, he finally tears his gaze from the lawn down to your defeated state and uncrosses his arms. As he leans closer, you think for a moment that he’s finally going to touch you, to hold you and tell you everything’s okay. Instead, he reaches over you and snatches the mask from your side, just to hold it up to your face.

“Banner said you do, so you’re wearing it, okay?” He all but spits. You hold his stony glare and pray that your lip won’t tremor like it always does when you’re upset. The coldness of his stare saps the warmth from your chest, replacing it with a pit of indignation that’s growing with every passing moment.

“Why are you being like this, James?” The mellow tone you didn’t even know you could use slips by, a far cry from the cruelness of Bucky’s, and you watch as he straightens up and turns away. “You- you can’t even look at me! You won’t touch me, you order me around like I’m-“

He scoffs. He literally scoffs in your face.

“Are you serious? You’re acting like a child, James.”

“Oh, and you’re not?!” His attention is back on you now and you flinch at the sudden change in dynamic.

“What the fuck does that-“

“Hey, guys!”

Steve appears from behind the ambulance door and leans down to hug you. Your eyes are stuck on Bucky, who’s resorted to turning his back to you as if that’s going to fix this.

“How are you feeling, Y/n?” The captain asks, a hand lingering comfortingly on your shoulder as you fight to pull your eyes away from your neighbour.

“Uhh yeah,” You shake your head slightly and look up at Steve with a smile, “yeah I’m feeling better, thank you.”

Though he chooses not to comment on it, he sees how your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “That’s great, I’m real glad you’re alright, Y/n. You want me to switch the oxygen off if you’re not needing it anymore?”

In the corner of your eye, Bucky’s back clenches taut and he stills. The conflict between sticking up for yourself and giving in to Bucky plays out like a musical in your mind, each side tugging you to and from at a rate of knots. But the tension between you and the firefighter isn’t enough for you to lose yourself; deep down, you know you’ve done nothing wrong and you certainly don’t owe Bucky anything after the way he’s treated you.

You look up at Steve with a confidence that both you and Bucky are surprised by. “That would be great, thanks, Cap.”

With a quick, questioning glance at the brooding firefighter in the corner, Steve turns off the machine and steps back after a quick pat on Alpine’s head.

“Do you mind if I steal Buck for a minute?” Steve asks.

“Go for it.”

After a grateful smile, Steve grabs his best friend’s arm and drags him away, leaving you with a frown and a sleeping cat.

Their footsteps fade away as they walk out of ear shot and you’re forced to try your hand at lip reading. It doesn’t take long before you realise there’s no chance in hell you’re going to figure out what Steve is saying, quite sternly, might you add.

“Cut her some slack, Buck. She was trying to do the right thing.”

The brunette scoffs, “She was trying to get herself killed.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t have done the same damn thing.”

“It’s different,” Bucky grumbles, shaking his head.

“Is it?”

“I’m a firefighter, Steve! I know what to do in that situation.”

Armed with a raised brow, the captain cocks his head slightly. “So you’re telling me if you had no training, no protection, you wouldn’t run into a burning building to save her?”

For a moment, Steve thinks he’s gotten through to his best friend, and that maybe, Bucky’s finally seeing some sense. But then Bucky reminds him exactly why he had to pull him over for a “chat” in the first place.

“She went back for Alps.”

“Have you thought that maybe she went back for you!?” Steves voice raises as his tone sharpens and Bucky’s confused ‘what?’ only fuels the fire burning in his chest.

“She knows how much you love that cat. Seems to me like she saved Alpine for you, Buck.”

Having learnt to not get ahead of himself, Steve waits for yet another snarky remark. Instead, he watches his friend look over his shoulder to your place in the back of the ambulance. Banner is in the process of taking your blood pressure while Nat makes you and Pepper laugh by playing with Alpine; the sight has a warmth growing in Bucky’s chest, and he wishes more than anything that Steve hadn’t dragged him away so far so he could hear your laughter.

As though you can feel his gaze, you lift your head and lock eyes with your neighbour, unknowingly causing his breath to catch at the back of his throat. And then you smile at him, tired and meek but beautiful nonetheless, and it nearly has him on his knees, begging for forgiveness for treating you so cruelly.

Yet he remains cold and stoic, his face contorting to one even more scorning than before. Because you were minutes away from not making it out of there, and now you’re laughing with his crew mates like he didn’t nearly lose you.

The infamous Tony Stark left Firehouse 107 years ago, yet you’ve heard his name more than you could count. He’s practically an urban legend to you at this point; even now as you scurry around the kitchen of one of his many properties that his own wife Pepper lent yoy, you’re not 100% certain he actually exists.

“Girl, I can’t believe you get to live here!” Sophie, your manager, rounds the corner of the hallway just as you glance over your shoulder.

“Yeah having my apartment burn down was totally worth it.”

You don’t mean for your tone to be a sharp as it is, nor as hostile, but you can’t help it. The aftermath of today’s events has left a sour taste in your mouth, but it’s the cold shoulder from Bucky that’s left you feeling hollow.

Sophie’s face drops, features twisting into one of regret and pity. You both fight over each other to apologise first and the heavy weight on your shoulders lifts lightly when you both laugh a little.

“That was a shitty thing to say, I’m sorry.” She comes over and pulls you into a hug.

“No, I shouldn’t have been a bitch about it, Soph.” You murmur into her shoulder, grateful for the comforting embrace after receiving nothing from the one person you’ve needed it from the most.

Pulling back, Sophie rests her hands on your shoulders. “I think you get a pass for today, hun. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you tonight?”

You immediately shake your head. “Absolutely not. You’ve got a big day tomorrow and you need your beauty sleep.”

A few weeks ago, Sophie was nominated for the local small-business owners award and the prize giving is tomorrow. The last thing you need is to feel guilty for keeping her from such a momentous event.

“Only if you’re sure, I can-“

“Nope. You’re going, that’s final.” You cut her off with a reassuring smile and place your own hands on her shoulders to steer her to the door. “Like you said, this place is a dream. I think i’ll manage just fine!”

After a warm goodbye and another attempt to change your mind (and even more assurance that you’d survive the night alone), your boss heads out.

It’s quiet now; Stark’s swanky apartment is so high up that you can barely hear the hustle and bustle of the street below, a stark contrast (pun intended) to the paper thin walls of your old apartment.

Old apartment. Only been here 4 hours and you’re already along it the old apartment.

You turn on your heel and face your new home for the next few weeks, still taken aback by the shininess of everything. The plush ivory couch is spotless, the shelves of the fridge don’t bear a single crumb, you even had to peel the protective film off the damn shower head earlier. Everything is perfect. Everything should be perfect.

But it’s not. Not without him.

You’d take back the broken elevator and shitty water pressure in a heartbeat if it meant you got Bucky back too. Instead, you’re left with this incredible apartment and no one to share it with, not even Alpine.

Without noticing it, enough time passes by while you stare at the untouched home before you that it’s now dark enough for lamps to be turned on. You stumble around in the darkness for any switches you can find, eventually finding and turning on a lamp that you’re sure costs more than your whole ‘old apartment’.

One after the other, you light up the apartment enough to find your way to the fridge where you scour through the groceries Sophie collected for you, desperate for a drink to numb the pain.

Smiling weakly at the cakes she must’ve snuck in, a knock at the front door snatches your attention.

You hurry to the door, though you underestimate how long it takes to cross the width of the apartment, and prepare to remind your excessively concerned friend that you’ll be perfectly fine on your own for the night.

“Sophie,” You begin, swinging the door open with a sigh, “I’m starting to feel insulted at how- oh…“ oh. oh.

“Hey,” Bucky says, a hand stretched behind him to rub the back of his neck. His eyes are tired and lifeless, but at least they’re lacking the venom they possessed just hours ago.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

Your questions takes him aback, like he never once considered you wouldn’t blindly open your new home to him, offer him a beer and give him free rein of the tv. Of course, he didn’t expect that, but he didn’t expect this either.

“I’m ‘Bucky’ now?”

Your eyes drop to the floor. “James. I’m sorry, I meant James.”

The timid nature of your response has the firefighter cursing himself for trying to be funny. Instead, he made you feel like you have to please him, to call him James just because he said so.

“No, it’s-“ Bucky takes a breath trying to settle the rising frustration at how difficult it is for you two to talk normally when it used to come to you like breathing. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. I came to see how you’re doing?”

The softness of his voice has your head lifting, eyes meeting his to search for the warmth that you yearn for so dearly.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

“Can I come in?” Bucky asks, dodging your question like a hitter ducking from the first baseman’s glove.

You reply by stepping to the side, allowing your neighbour to slip past you.

“Nice place.”

‘Nice place’, Buck? Really? That’s what you’re gonna open with?

“Thanks.”

‘Thanks’, Y/n? Really? What, did you build it yourself or something?

The awkwardness between you is unsettling in itself and you have to physically shake your head to try and rid yourself of the feeling.

The firefighter’s eyes fall to your body and his brows draw closer. You look down at yourself and back at Bucky’s confused face when you put two and two together.

“They’re Sophie’s,” You run the hem of your- her -shirt between your thumb and forefinger, “she dropped them off with some other stuff to get me through the next couple days.”

Getting nothing in response, you walk to the kitchen where you resume your search for a drink. Your boss bought pretty much everything at the grocery store, but unfortunately for you, she must have skipped the alcohol aisle. You settle for a glass of water, a far cry from the kind of drink you need to get you through this interaction, but it’ll have to do.

“Do you want a drink?” You call over your shoulder as you pour yourself a glass. If it weren’t for his reflection in the tall, remarkably clean windows, you’d never even know there was someone in the room.

“The options are water or water?”

Receiving nothing but silence yet again, you pour a second glass. “Water it is.” The dead silence burns as you return the water jug to the fridge where your eyes fall upon the cakes Sophie brought. “Oh! And cakes from the café too. Soph got the cookies you really like, would you like one?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a-“

“What were you thinking?”

You freeze, part way through shutting the fridge door, and while you know exactly what he said, his words echoing through your mind, you ask him to repeat himself.

“I’m sorry?”

“What were you thinking, Y/n? Going back for Alpine?!” His words flow out faster than he can pronounce them, the damn holding back his emotions finally collapses.

You slam the door shut, glass bottles rattling away as you speak, “I couldn’t leave when I knew she was trapped and there was a fire across the hall!”

Bucky throws his hands in the air. “Do you not trust us to do our jobs, Y/n?” He yells. “It’s what we do! We would’ve gotten her out- I would’ve gotten her out!”

“Put yourself in my shoes, James, there was a fire and I panicked and I did what I felt was right. If that meant not waiting for you then that’s what I was gonna do.”

You hadn’t even realised you’ve been stepping toward your neighbour, closing the distance between you till only a few feet separates you. Bucky’s eyes are frantic, yours are cold as steel and the air between you is so charged that your hands are shaking; with a clenched jaw, you try to steady your breathing while Bucky steps back to pace across the room with his hands raking through his hair.

“I can’t-“ His hands drop to the base of his neck where he needs the skin in his fists. “I can’t believe you were stupid enough to run back into a burning building for a cat that’s not even yours!”

You son of a bitch.

“That’s not fair, I love her too!” You cry, only to flinch when Bucky turns back to you with tears in his eyes.

“Well, I love you!!” He bellows, voice breaking at the end. “Who looks after you, huh?! Who comes to save you when you get trapped?”

You mumble a ‘what?’ but you’re drowned out by his words and the weight they possess.

“How are you not seein’ this, doll? This isn’t about Alps, it’s about you.” You frown, gaze jumping between those captivating blue eyes in disarray. “It’s about you putting yourself in danger to save something that is not your responsibility.”

“But I-“

“Don’t.” Bucky warns. “Whether you feel inclined to or not, you are not responsible for keeping her safe, I am. And that- fuck- that means you stayed in a fire to do something that’s my job. I should be the only one who needs to go into danger to protect her but I wasn’t there so you did it.”

“James-“

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed over something that’s my fault-

“James!-“

“It’s my fault you ended up in there, doll, so if you got hurt then that-“

You grab his face in your hands and press your lips to his, grounding him with your touch. The rooms spins around you as you work to slow his descent down a rabbit hole of guilt, lips moving against his even though his remain still. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d find his hands still in the air, but you don’t pay any mind to that; you’re only focus is on showing him you love him too, that you’re safe and he doesn’t need to blame himself for a damn thing.

You don’t know how long it takes, but at some point along the line, Bucky’s arms wrap around your waist, pinning you to his chest while he finally kisses you back.

The salty taste of shared tears greet your tongue as your lips dance against his. Your hands travel from his cheeks to his hair, tugging at his roots till his lips part in a gasp. You take the chance to tease your muscle against his, moaning at the feeling.

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry,” You breathe between kisses, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Bucky shakes his head as much as you’ll let him with your tongue still tangled with his.

“No, it’s my fault, I should’ve been there.”

You pull back with tearful eyes. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Not the fire.” He murmurs, eyes clenching shut as he tugs one of your hands to his mouth, presses a doting kiss to your palm. “For everything after it. I just- I couldn’t understand why you did it, doll. And that’s not an excuse, I don’t mean it like that- there’s no excuse for it but I was so scared and confused and-“

“Angry that I went back.” You finish his sentence for him, as painful as it is to admit. “I know, honey, I know I scared you, I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t apologise, you did nothing wrong, I need you to know that.” Bucky looks into your eyes with such intensity that you feel it in your chest. When he clenches his eyes shut and he somehow holds you even tighter than before, you brace for the question you know is coming. “But why, darling? Why would you go back? I don’t understand.”

He’s almost sobbing now, forehead rattling against yours as he fights back the tears he’s been withholding all day.

But you didn’t know why, truly. All day you’ve tried to figure out what happened to you, what possessed you to do what you did. But then Bucky, your James, turned up on your doorstep 5 minutes ago and it all made sense.

“Because I love you, too.”

His eyes snap open and a look of what you can only describe as disbelief. “Fuck, you do?”

You breathe a laugh, “More than anything.”

Before you know it, his lips are back on yours and he’s kissing you with a passion you’ve never felt before. It’s different this time, this kiss, it’s like you’ve submitted yourselves to the love you have for one another and everything feels so different but so so good.

But that feeling is stripped from you like a rug being swept from beneath your feet because he’s pulling back with conflict laced beneath his gaze. “That’s why you went back?”

You nod sheepishly, tears trailing down your cheeks.

“You’re killing me, you know that?” The firefighter says, words coming out strained like he’s still holding back.

“I didn’t mean to, James,” You bundle up his t-shirt in your firsts, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky cradles your head to his chest, holding you so close to him that his heart beat reverberates into your chest. He presses a kiss to the top of your head while you tighten your hold around his waist. “I know you didn’t, doll.”

You can feel his chest tightening each time he tries to continue and gently urge him to continue. “But…?”

Bucky’s small laugh is muffled by your hair and he pulls back slightly to hold your face in his hands.

“But,” He smiles softly, eyes baring into yours, “I need you to find a different way to love me. One that doesn’t have you running into burning buildings.”

You frown with your lip between your teeth. “What if I moved in with you and Alps? Then we wouldn’t have this problem!”

“You want to move in together?” Your neighbour is taken aback by the idea.

You go to nod proudly but it only takes a second for Bucky to snap back to reality and escape the clutches of your desperate attempt to change the subject.

“No, don’t answer that.” He warns. “That’s not what we’re discussing.”

“Well technically it is…”

“No it’s not. We’re not- I can’t-“

“You don’t wanna live with me?” You tilt your head to the side with a look like a scorned puppy.

Bucky’s quick to fall victim to your tricks yet again; he leans in and presses sweet kisses to your lips while replying. “Of course I want to live with you, I wanna do everything with you-“

“There we go then, problem solved!” You grin with a mischievous glint in your eye and watch as Bucky frowns in complete confusion.

“What? No! No, problem very much not solved!”

“I think it would-“

“Doll, I don’t give a damn what the living situation is - you can’t put yourself in danger for me.” His tone is leaving little to no room for argument. Little to no room…

“But-“

“No buts, Y/n.” Bucky stops you before you can work your magic on him again. “I love Alpine and i’d be sad if anything happened to her but i’d live. But you?” His voice cracks and he’s closing his eyes to hold back any more tears. “If I lost you I- I don’t think i’d be able to go on. You’re everything to me. I’d sacrifice the world to keep you safe and that means that you can’t go running into burning building or jumping in front of bullets- I don’t even want you drinking your coffee too quickly after I made it cause you might burn your tongue!”

You giggle and lean into his palm.

“You’re my priority, sweets. I need you safe and healthy, so I can’t have you being reckless like you were today. It’s you before everything, okay?”

You nod, and you mean it this time, though Bucky’s not convinced.

“See you’re nodding but I feel like you’re not getting it.”

With a laugh, you pat his toned chest and reach up on your toes to kiss him sweetly. “I get it, James. I’ll try not to do anything reckless going forward.” You pull back and look up at him cheekily. “Not even for your adorable pet cat who is probably tearing Steve’s apartment to shreds right now.”

Bucky’s face drops and he glares at you, though there’s a playful glint in it. Sliding his hand down your arm to catch yours before you try and return to the kitchen, he sobers up. “I need you to promise me, Y/n. Promise me you’ll never put yourself in danger for me.”

You look away as though you haven’t heard him and go to step back again and offer him an actual drink this time.

“Y/n…” He warns, tone low and gruff. “I asked you a question.”

“Technically, it was an order, not a ques-“

Bucky spins you around and pins you against the wall with your hands beside your head. If the look in his eye is anything to go by, you know you’ve successfully irked him. What can you say? After the day he’s put you through, a girl deserves a little fun.

“Quit playin’. I need you to promise me, please.” His tone is raw but firm, yet you continue to blur the line between teasing and down right psychological torture.

“And what if I don’t… sarge?”

Those blue eyes don’t stray from yours, nor does he flinch at your little attempt to claim dominance. You cock a brow at the firefighter with a growing smirk but it only takes one slight nudge of his knee between your thighs to have your confidence faltering.

Bucky leans down, nose ghosting past your ear and breath spilling down your neck. “M’not sure you’re understandin’ me, doll. I ain’t askin’.”

You don’t even think before replying, “Maybe you should.”

Bucky scoffs, “After the shit you pulled today?” He raises your hands above your head, still clamped in his tight grasp, “You’re hardly in a position to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, sweetheart.”

“And what do you think you should do?” You ask meekly.

“I think I should teach you a lesson.” Bucky’s lust blown eyes drop to your lips. “But seeing as you don’t listen to my words, maybe you’ll listen to your sarge’s cock instead, hm?”

A whimper escapes your lips before you can clamp them shut; his lips ghost over yours as he speaks and you find yourself fighting the urge to clash your lips against his.

“M’gonna fuck some sense into you, doll face. S’only fair after everything you put me through…” You let out a breathy sound when he traces his lips down your jawline to your pulse point, eyes fluttering shut.

“James…”

You’re met with silence, but the hand replacing his lips that works to tilt your face to meet his has your eyes snapping open once more.

“Not ‘James’.”

Your frown. “Jamie?”

Bucky chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re cute when you’re confused, but no. Not ‘Jamie’…” His hand squeezes your throat, leaving you clenching around nothing. “Sarge.”

Breathe catching in your throat, your body stills completely.

“What wrong, sweets? I thought you loved callin’ me sarge.” The longer you stay silent and the wider your eyes grow, Bucky worries he’s gone too far and his gaze softens. “We can stop if-“

“Don’t stop.” You rush out. “…Sarge.”

With a growl, Bucky’s eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. “On your knees.”

You slide down the narrow gap between your neighbour and the wall, reaching to unbuckle his belt as you do.

“Ah ah ah,” Bucky tuts, hands pulling yours free of his belt, “did I say you could touch me?”

You bite your lip and shake your head no, though a raise of his brow reminds you that you’re missing something. “No, sarge.”

The corner of his lips tugs into a smirk. “Good girl. Hands at your sides.”

Sweet Jesus.

Bucky unties his belt, closely followed by the button and zip of his pants and you think it might be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. Turns out, it’s not just you. Your neighbour is fighting the urge to roll his hips into your face with the way you’re lookin’ up at him, eyes flicking back and forth between his and the way his hands are working to free his hard length. Gulping hard, you fingers flex and curl into fists at your sides as you fight the burning desire to touch him.

“You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you? I leave you for a few hours and you’re on your knees for me in minutes.”

“Please,” you beg, thighs clenching.

“You want my cock, doll? Yeah?”

You nod quickly, dragging your eyes away from his leaking cock head to his and pleading with your eyes.

“Fuck, you look so pretty like this.” Bucky hums. He cups your cheek, tracing his pointer finger down the side of your face while his thumb tugs on your bottom lip. He groans so softly at the sight that it’s nearly drowned out by the blood rushing through your ears. “Are you comfortable, sweets?” He asks with softer features.

You whisper a yes before taking his moment of tenderness to test the waters. Dipping your head, you catch his thumb between your lips, lightly sucking on it while your tongue swirls around the tip.

“Knew that mouth was good for somethin’.”

You hold his stare and playfully bite his thumb, a small act of defiance, one that proves to be a costly mistake. The firefighter draws his thumb from your mouth instantly, a smirk toting his lips as he looks at you with disappointment.

“Play nice,” He warns as though he’s scolding a puppy, “or I can go and deal with this myself.”

Your mewl has bucky chuckling to himself.

“You don’t want that, do you baby?”

“No.” Bucky raises an expectant brow. “No, sarge.”

“Good girl.”

He presses the soft, weeping head of his cock to your lips as a reward for your obedience, heart racing as fast as his dick is throbbing when your desperate tongue reaches out to steal a taste of his pre cum off your lips.

“Go ahead, doll. Suck the tip for me.”

You don’t need to be told twice; tongue dipping beneath his cock head, you draw him into your mouth and latch your lips around him tightly. The day fades into the back of your mind like a long lost memory when you close your eyes to savour the feeling of Bucky’s weight in your tongue.

Bucky, meanwhile, can’t hold back his grunts. It’s only the tip and he already thinks he’s seeing God, his head tipped back in pleasure.

“Oh that’s it, that’s it.” He moans.

Your innocent little hums travel down his shaft and straight to his balls. The burning pleasure nearly distracts him enough for him to miss your attempt to take more of him in your mouth. Before you can even register the firefighter drawing his cock free of your warm mouth, you feel it slap across your cheek. The shaft, slick with you spit and his arousal, creates and obscene sound, one that draws a whimper from your now empty mouth.

“What did I say to you, hmm?” A calloused hand grips your chin and tilts your head up. “Tell me.”

“Suck the tip for me.” You don’t miss how pathetic you sound, but you’re drunk on Bucky’s cock and you’d do anything to have him back between your lips at this point. His intense stare smothers any confidence you thought you hand and you wait patiently for his next move.

He shakes his head, unimpressed. “And here I thought you were gonna be good for me.”

“I will!” Gosh, what are you even saying? If you weren’t so intoxicated with him, you’d cringe at how desperate you sound, how desperate you look.

Struck once again by his throbbing length, you can’t help but release a slutty moan. Seriously, you could be mistaken for a pornstar if the neighbours can hear you. They can, but who gives a fuck when you’re staring at your sarge’s dick?

“Does it turn you on when I do that?” Bucky’s head dips lower, pouting condescendingly. “Or is it the thought of taking your sarge’s whole cock down your throat that got your drippin’ onto the floor?”

Bucky notes how your fingers flex at your sides before pressing flat against your soft thighs. The anticipation is clawing at you but you know better now than to take matter into your own hands, even when Bucky takes his shaft and presses the tip to your lips, his other hand holding the back of your head.

“Come on, don’t get all shy on me now. Open up for me, doll. Open up for sarge.”

It’s like he’s toying with you now so your eyebrows pinch together while you let your jaw fall open.

“It’s okay, babydoll. Just keep those sweet eyes on me, that’s it.”

His cock slips further down your throat and by the time you figure out the catch to his sudden grace, the hand holding his cock joins the other at the back of your head and he’s snapping his hips forward.

“There it is, keep lookin’ at me.” Bucky groans, his cock hitting the back of your throat with bruising force. “I wanna see those eyes while I fuck m’girl’s throat.”

His words really aren’t warning enough for what comes next. For stroke and stroke, Bucky ruts into your mouth like you’re his personal little fleshlight, a toy whose sole purpose is to take his cum. He pauses every now and then to give you just enough time to catch your breath before he’s forcing his cock back inside.

The firefighter rambles to himself, praises and grunts reaching your ears intermittently. After all, the sound of your gags are hard to hear past.

As the shock of Bucky’s sudden dominance passes, you lean into your new role with ease; sticking your tongue out to give him free reign, bobbing your head along with his thrusts, occasionally holding your head close to the base of his shaft for seconds at a time. Every trick you know, you use.

“Argh, just like that. Making your sa-arge feel so good, doll.” He stutters through his words when you keep swirling your tongue around him, but when he looks down again and is met with your glossy eyes looking right back at him, his cock fucking twitches. “Fuck, sweets, you’re gonna make me cum!”

You moan around him, enjoying the way his brows pull closer together and his mouth curves into an ‘o’ when you do.

“Would you like that, doll? To taste me?”

Muffled by his sex, murmur a yes down his length, bobbing your head faster.

“Oh yeah, God- you’re gonna look so damn hot swallowing my cum. Might even sh-shoot some over your pretty face, take a photo for next time i’m- fuck- on a night shift.”

The insinuation that Bucky would use that photo to jerk off at the firehouse drives you to work harder. To suck harder.

“Fuck fuck fuck oh baby don’t stop. Please don’t stop, i’m so close.”

The ache in your neck begs you to ease up, but the look in Bucky’s eyes has you relaxing your throat one last time and bringing your hands up to his toned ass.

Hoping your performance will make up for disobeying him, your hands hold him closer. Bucky’s cock delves that little bit deeper down your throat and it’s enough to tip him over the edge.

“I’m gonna cum oh my fuckkkk- fuck doll, I’m cumming. I’m cumming ohh-“

Thick ropes of his seed race down your throat and you swallow around him, welcoming the salty taste. Realising you’ve not taken a breathe since he let go, Bucky tries to pull back and let you breathe, but you dig your fingernails into his ass just enough to make him hiss: a warning that he shouldn’t dare pull out.

You ignore your lungs scream for air and nurse on his cock, milking every last drop of his cum. You have no idea how you manage to stay conscious but it isn’t until Bucky’s length is soft in your mouth that you pull off him.

“There you go. Breathe, baby.” Bucky encourages, tucking your hair behind your ear as you cough and splutter for a moment. When your breath finally catches up to you, your voice is raspy and coarse.

“I promise.”

Your neighbour looks at you incredulously, his mind working overtime to figure out what it is that you’re promising until eventually, it dawns on him.

The promise that started all this. The promise not to put yourself in danger for him.

“And you decided that before or after I fucked that pretty mouth? Hmm?” He asks, his thumb tracing your cheek bone gently.

“Before I was even on my knees…”

Breathing a ‘fuck’ beneath his breath, Bucky pounces; within seconds, you’re suspended in the air and being carried bridal style down the hallway, leaving a trails of giggles and squeals in your wake.

“Last one on the right.” You share between laughs, reading you neighbour’s mind before he even has chance to ask.

Kicking the door open, Bucky carries you to the bed and places you down gently, a far cry from the rough and heavy treatment you got in the living room. You watch in a haze as he kicks off his boots and socks before he’s back on top of you.

“If you knew you’d promise beforehand, why’d ya let me keep goin’?” Bucky asks, eyes searching your own.

A knowing smile tugs at your lips and you look up at him through your lashes. “Cause I wanted you to.”

Your reply takes Bucky aback, his features contorting into one of surprise before settling back into one of awe, all while his heads shakes in what you assume to be disbelief.

“And what do you want now?” He asks with the slightest raise of his brow, waiting in anticipation for your next move.

With a brief glance at his lips, one that sends his cock jumping, you lean up to Bucky’s ear.

“I want you to do what you promised me in that note you left this morning.”

Bucky laughs, “You remember that, huh?”

You nod into his neck and kiss your way to the base of his throat. “Been thinking about your promises all day, sarge. You makin’ up for ditchin’ me for work…”

Latching your lips around the skin of his neck, you suck until it begins to bruise.

“…How you’d fuck me in your henley…”

Your lips travel north, up the ridge of his stubble covered adam’s apple, tongue trailing a bold stripe up his skin. The sensation has Bucky tipping his head back in pleasure and groaning; hearing his reaction to you never fails to make your cunt pulse, but feeling the vibrations beneath your tongue makes your cunt throb. Settling just above the peak of his adam’s apple, you bruise the skin with your lips once more.

“…maybe remake some of my dreams…”

Goosebumps rise in the wake of your touch as you tease a hand under your neighbour’s shirt, from his half buckled belt line to the muscle ridged plane between his shoulder blades.

“…oh and you’d love them, sarge.” You goad, teasing your tongue up to his ear. “You always fuck me so good in them.”

“Tell me about ‘em.”

Pulling back ever so slightly, you find Bucky’s half lidded eyes to be black, his pupils so blown wide that you wonder how on earth he’s not being blinded by the light, as dimly lit as the room is anyway.

“Well this one time, I dreamt you picked me up from work.” You hum. “You’d just gone for one of your runs, and it was hot out, so you were only wearing your shorts.”

Bucky sits back on his heels, careful not to squash your legs, and brings his hands to the hem of his shirt. Slowly, teasingly, he draws the navy fabric higher and higher until he’s freed himself from its constraints. Your blatant ogling of his chiselled torso is cut short when he leans over you once more, tendrils of hair tumbling into your face.

“Then what?” he asks, searching your eyes as though they hold the answer.

“W-well you’d left something at the firehouse, and we had to go get it. It was somewhere in your office, but while I helped look for it, I knocked an award off the shelf and it smashed in two. You made me pay you back.”

Bucky’s brows draw closer, “Well that’s not the type of dream I thought y-“

“With my mouth,” you interrupt, “on your cock.”

Lip caught between his teeth, the firefighter ruts into you, and you realise just how hard he’s gotten despite cumming down your throat less than five minutes ago.

“Sounds familiar.” Bucky drawls, eyes dropping to your lips. The ones he is now all too familiar with.

“Hmm, well seeing as we’ve already done that, why don’t you ask me what happens next?”

With bated breath, Bucky asks “What happens next, doll?”

“Well, you didn’t like that you were the only one half dressed, and you told me to take me top off.”

You watch your neighbour tug at the bottom of your top and gently slip it over your head. “Bra too?” You’re convinced you see Bucky pout when you shake your head.

“Not yet. Even with the one way glass, I got nervous that someone would see me through your office window.“

He smirks. “You weren’t nervous when you were sucking me off?”

“I wasn’t the one with my dick out for the whole firehouse to see.” You scoff. “But you wanted to prove to me that no one would see a thing.”

“How?”

“You texted Peter to come check you’d locked your office at the end of your shift, turned and faced the centre of the window, and stripped completely.” Reaching between your bodies, you push back Bucky’s jeans and boxers until he takes over and rids himself of them fully.

Eyeing up your neighbours body, bare just for you, you wet your lips and continue.

“And then you looked right at me, and starting stroking your cock.”

This time, it doesn’t take your guiding hands for Bucky to wrap a hand around his hardened length and jerk himself off.

“Fuck,” You murmur, “just like that. Looks even better like this, sarge.”

Your praise earns you a searing kiss, one that’s broken all too soon by Bucky ordering you to keep going.

“Peter walked right past the window and didn’t even flinch. Fuck, you were going so fast, I was scared he’d hear you.” Bucky responds by fucking his fist faster, and boy did the sounds your mind conjured up not do a damn bit of justice for the real thing.

Chest heaving and grunts tumbling from his lips like water from a fountain, Bucky tucked his head into the crook of your neck and began licking and sucking like his life depended on it. You bring a hand to his head, needing through his hair to distract yourself from the fact the man you love is laying on top of you and jerking off.

“Don’t stop.” He nips at the skin right beneath you ear in warning.

“Pe-Peter left after trying the door, like we weren’t even there. You pulled me in front of you and- fuck- you, um, you took my bra off and- ohh…”

Bucky releases his cock and reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. He tears it off you, and, like a man possessed, wraps his swollen lips around your left nipple and suckles on it. You moan immediately, back arching into him when you feel his throbbing length against your stomach.

“Jamie, please-“

“Don’t care if this didn’t happen in your dream, lemme suck m’doll’s tits.”

With his mouth feeling like heaven on your skin, you can’t remember anything about the dream, nor do you care to try. But it’s not long before Bucky has you dreaming about something else…

“Wanna taste your milk, sweets, gonna fuck a baby into you and suck on these full, pretty tits till I can drink from ‘em.”

Well that’s new, you think, pussy clenching around nothing at the image of your neighbour suckling on your own breasts.

He turns to love on your other boob, mumbling incoherently into your plush skin. “You like your sarge playing with your tits, doll?”

You mewl a yes when he looks up at you while continuing his assault.

“Atta girl.” He praises, “What next?”

You look down at him in bewilderment.

“In your dream, sweets. What happens next?”

“Oh…” you blush at how easily he’s distracted you. “Umm, you take my bra off and turn me around and you take my jeans and panties off.”

You faintly hear a ‘Yes Ma’am’ before you being flipping onto your stomach and having your hips lifted so Bucky can tug your jeans and panties off.

“So pretty,” Bucky swoons, “so fuckin’ pretty like this, all on show f’me. What now, sweet girl?”

You gulp, knowing what came after this, and knowing you’re finally about to get what you’ve been fantasising about ever since the damn dream itself.

“You bend me over,” He lifts you up onto your hands and knees but pushes you into the bed between you shoulder blades. “And you hold my hip with one hand, and r-run your cock through my- um-“

Stumbling over your words, Bucky leans forward until his lips brush the curve of your ear. “Through your pussy lips? Hmm?”

You nod eagerly, waiting patiently for him to follow suit. It feels like hours before a hand finds your left hip, and days before you finally feel the swollen tip of his cock delving through your folds. Hiding your whimpers into the pillow, Bucky presses lovingly kisses to the back of your neck and across your shoulders.

“Like this, baby?”

Your muffled agreement brings a smirk to his lips as he continues to rut through your sex. So consumed by the moment, Bucky doesn’t notice you reaching behind yourself to tug on his hair. The feeling surprises him enough that you hear a small gasp fall from his lips, and you take full advantage of him being off guard to push your hips back into his, at just the right point for his cock to slip inside your desperate hole.

“And then,” you pull Bucky by his hair till you’re able to look him in the eye, “you fuck me.” You say, watching as his pleasure-struck expression morphs into one of awe; the stillness of the moment leaves nothing but your tangled breathes to be heard before your neighbour’s body catches up with his thoughts, and he finally rocks into you.

It’s slower than you’d expected. Deep thrusts arrive inch by agonising inch, allowing the walls of your weeping cunt to memorising every vein of Bucky’s length. Mouth curved and brows pinched, the firefighter buries his face deeper into your neck, cries of your own name falling upon your ears like a prayer.

“So fuckin’ tight for me, doll.”

“Just-“ A moan tears through you as Bucky’s cock edges further inside your pussy, “just for you, Jamie.”

“God, you can’t say shit like that, baby. I won’t last.”

Well in that case…

“S’all yours, sarge, yours to fuck wh-whenever you want.” You drawl, enjoying the way Bucky’s hips stutter mid thrust. “Cock’s fillin’ me up so damn good, you’ve ruined me for anyone else. Only you can make me feel this good, baby.”

Spurred on by your praise, Bucky speeds up, ramming into you faster with each stroke. The searing hot pleasure has him releasing a long train of swear words, muffled by your own skin.

“You really want me to bust, don’t you? Practically begging for your sarge’s cum like a whore.”

A fresh wave of arousal rushes around his dick and the sound of his balls slapping against your folds grows louder.

“Hear that, sweets? How wet this pussy is f’me? Fuck, we sound so good together, babydoll.” Bucky grunts while fucking into you with vigour. Long gone is the slow rutting he started with, his hips now slamming into you faster than you can cope.

“I know you’re close,” Bucky murmurs, “I am too. My balls’ haven’t felt this full in my life. Gonna give you every last drop, sweets. Bet that’s what your dirty little head imagined, isn’t it?”

Words fail you and your left with nothing but whimpers to give in response, but your neighbour isn’t satisfied.

“Tell me, doll, you’re the one who wanted this, huh? Tell me how hard you came in your dreams when I filled you up with my cum.”

“Argh!” If your throat weren’t so bruised from being a fleshlight for a certain firefighter, your exclamation may have sounded like a scream. Instead, it comes out broken, tired, and laced with a burning desire to be bred. “Squirted a-all over you, sarge, it went everywhere, I- oh fuck- I’ve never cum so h-hard in my life!”

“That’s my perfect girl, gonna make you cum so hard you never have to dream of my cock ever again, okay? I’ll give it to you whenever my girl needs it.”

The knot in your belly is tightening just a step faster than Bucky’s balls are; you’re mere seconds away from giving him everything, but you wait for him to tell you that you can.

You peer over your shoulder to find him with his lip between his teeth, his eyes closed as he focuses solely on making you feel good. You watch in real time as he slides a hand around your waist and delve between your thighs, his fingers finding your clit faster than you ever have.

God, he knows you so well.

“Jamie, please, please- oh- I’m gonna cum. Please let me cum, sarge, please!” You cry, the strumming of your clit ready to send you over the edge.

“You want my permission, doll?”

“Yes! Yes, please, Jamie.”

“I’ll let you cum,” He begins, mouth drawing closer to yours as those glassy blue eyes bear into your own, “if you tell me you love me.”

“Fuck, that’s it?” You all but scoff. “That’s like asking me to breathe.”

Resting his forehead against yours, Bucky rocks his hips into yours and his eyelids flutter shut. “Just need to hear it, doll.”

With a single, love-soaked kiss, you tell him what he wants to hear. Not because you’re desperate to finally let go, but because it’s true.

“I love you, James.”

The next few minutes are a blur. You orgasm tears through you like a freight train and your sweet juices soak Bucky in just seconds. He, however, has buried himself so deep inside you that the cum shooting from his cock head hits your g-spot, and sends you tumbling into yet another orgasm.

Your ever tightening cunt grips onto Bucky like a vice, and it keeps him from pulling out. Not that he ever planned on it. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d give you every last drop.

Hot, white seed spills out around his length and onto the sheets, enough that you wonder if he ever came inside you in the first place. But while your sex’s remain fused together, as do your foreheads; Bucky never pulled back, and neither did you, the sheer need to be closer than close keeping you from parting.

Despite your sorry attempt to stay awake, Bucky whispers sweet nothings into your ear until you still beneath him. He has no intentions of forcing you to stay awake, not when he gets the honour of watching over you, to keep a close eye on your sleeping form as you rest in his hold. Eventually, once your breathing has evened out and the rise and fall of your chest has slowed, he’ll reluctantly pull himself out of your warmth and clean up any cum that’s clung to your thighs. He’ll wipe the drying beads of sweat from your brow and run his fingers through the soft but tangled hair tumbling over your shoulders. The lamps will be switched off, clothes will be folded neatly on the dresser, front door will be locked and blankets straightened and tucked in around you.

And then he’ll climb under the sheets to join his beautiful doll, the one he’d give everything for. He’ll thank the heavens you got out of that building today, but he’ll thank them more for bringing you back to him. Back to his loving arms, that he’ll wrap around you and pull you to his chest. You’ll snuggle into him, press a sleepy kiss to his bare chest, and drag him into your dreams with you.

a/n: ok ok ok i’m sorry it took like a year to get this done. most of it has been written for months, but i just couldn’t figure out how i wanted it to go when bucky turned up at her doorstep. i hope you liked it, i also hope it’s not too horny (but let’s be real, it’s a smut fest). let’s see if i actually get on with any other projects 🤭

🧡

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[writeriguess]

Please make a dragon king bakugo x reader where she was pregnant and currently were in a room with a few medics, giving birth. Katsuki is forced to stay outside listening to her whining and moans of pain and after a whole he gets to see his baby son. And he and reader goes to their people to show of the newborn baby with Katsukis parents in the crowd?

Heir of Fire and Thunder

The pain crashes over you in hot, burning waves—relentless, all-consuming. You scream again, your voice hoarse, sweat-drenched hair clinging to your forehead as you grip the sides of the birthing bed with trembling hands. The stone walls of the royal chamber echo with your cries, and the scent of incense burns faint in the air in a vain attempt to calm the tension flooding the room.

Around you, a handful of royal medics rush with whispered commands and fluttering robes. The room is warm and thick with magic—ancient dragon runes carved into the walls glowing faintly with protective light. You can’t see them through the haze of pain, but they’re there, just like the quiet murmurs of support from the elder midwives, kneeling at your sides.

“Breathe, my Queen. The babe is almost here,” one of them says gently, brushing your damp cheek. You let out a shaky cry.

“Where the hell is he?” you gasp, fingers clawing at the mattress.

“His Majesty waits just beyond the doors,” the healer replies with soft reverence. “He listens, my lady. He’s… not calm.”

Outside the chamber…

Katsuki Bakugo, Dragon King of the Ember Cliffs, storms in tight, agitated circles before the towering obsidian doors. The roars of a storm dragon echo faintly outside the castle walls—his doing. He’s tried to stay composed. Gods, he wants to stay composed.

But your screams... they’re cutting through him like blades.

He slams his fist against the stone wall, leaving a cracked crater behind. The guards flinch but say nothing. No one dares speak to him right now.

“Kami, I swear—if something happens to her, to the baby—” he growls, chest heaving with restrained fire. His claws twitch in and out. Sparks crackle along his arms where his draconic heritage leaks through, muscles tight with fury and fear.

“She’s strong,” says his mother, Mitsuki, stepping closer, unfazed by his temper. “Just like her mate. She’ll bring your heir into this world with fire in her blood.”

Katsuki huffs through his nose, jaw clenched. “She shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

“You’d tear the walls down if you were in there. You’d terrify the medics.” His father, Masaru, speaks up with a calm voice, though his own hands are folded tightly in front of him. “You’ll see them both soon.”

A long, gut-wrenching cry echoes from inside the chamber. Katsuki’s eyes snap shut.

He wants to roar. Wants to break through the doors and tear down the walls and hold you while you bring their child into the world. But all he can do is stand there and listen.

Inside again…

Your whole body trembles. You scream once more, the fire inside you flaring white-hot as one last, powerful contraction grips you.

“I see the head!” someone cries. “One more push, my Queen!”

You gather every ounce of strength you have left, growling through clenched teeth, and push with a wild, furious roar that shakes the very bed beneath you.

And then—blessed silence.

A gasp. A tiny, piercing wail that splits the air.

You collapse back against the pillows, heart thundering in your chest, tears blurring your vision as you blink up at the ceiling.

“…Is he…” you whisper.

The midwife turns to you with a beaming smile, holding a tiny, red-faced bundle wrapped in a soft gold-stitched cloth.

“A strong boy, my Queen. With your eyes.”

You reach out with shaking arms as the baby is placed in your embrace. His cries quiet slightly as your warmth surrounds him. A soft coo escapes you, and for a moment, nothing else exists.

“Bring in the King,” one of the medics says.

The doors slam open.

Katsuki’s frame fills the threshold in an instant, his cloak billowing behind him, hair wild, ruby eyes frantic. He takes in the scene—your exhausted body, the baby on your chest, the sheen of sweat and tears—and in a rare moment, his entire being just… softens.

“…Princess…” he breathes, rushing to your side.

You look up at him, smiling weakly. “Katsuki… we did it.”

He kneels beside the bed, claws retracting as he cups your face gently, brushing damp strands of hair from your temple. He presses his forehead to yours.

“You are… the strongest damn woman in this realm,” he murmurs, voice thick.

“Meet your son,” you whisper.

Bakugo leans down, eyes locking onto the tiny bundle nestled against your chest. His breath catches. A soft, stunned sound slips from his throat.

“Shit… he’s so small.”

You smile, watching him reach out, cradling the baby’s tiny head with a tenderness no one else would believe he possessed. His son’s hand flails weakly, grabbing at his father’s clawed finger.

“He’s got your stubborn grip,” you say, giggling tiredly.

Katsuki smirks, though his eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Damn right he does. Already a warrior.”

Later, in the throne courtyard…

The great bronze gates of the castle swing open, revealing the royal family. Trumpets sound. The people cheer, thousands gathered beneath the open sky, dragon banners flapping in the wind.

You stand tall beside your mate, your son cradled proudly in your arms, wrapped in a ceremonial cloth lined with dragon scales. Katsuki stands behind you with one hand at your back, the other raised high in a show of strength and pride.

“Our son,” he bellows, voice booming like thunder over the crowd. “The heir to the Dragon Throne!”

The cheers swell louder.

From the front row, Mitsuki beams through tears, gripping Masaru’s arm. “He’s perfect,” she whispers.

Masaru nods, unable to look away.

Katsuki leans down beside your ear. “You sure you wanna do this again in a few years?” he teases, smirking.

You laugh, elbowing him lightly. “Ask me when I can feel my legs again.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Whatever you want, Princess. Just say the word.”

Together, you face the crowd—the Dragon King, his fierce Queen, and the newborn Prince whose cry will one day shake the skies.

[cal-flakes]

Hello! Could you write something where reader and rafe are together for a while and completely obsessed with each other.. one day someone new to the island makes a negative comment about them and rafe hears about it

got a couple hurt/comfort requests so here u go xxx

‧₊🫧꒷꒦‧₊˚⋆

— laughter and embers from the log fire filled the air, comfortable sounds of waves crashing mixed with chatter, from everyone, from all sides of the island could be heard. and it made your heart swell.

but not nearly as much as the sight of your ever so gloomy boyfriend smiling; that’s right ladies and gentleman, rafe cameron had a smile on his face, a rare sight to behold. and it only made yours bigger, so much so that your cheeks hurt.

you sat comfortably on his lap, strong arms keeping you in places while he conversed with the other kooks, occasionally pressing the odd kiss to your shoulder, until you excused yourself. “m’gonna get another drink, want one?” you cooed, raking your manicured nails through the tiny growth of his buzzed hair. “m’all good kid, hold on— i’ll come with you”

after a minor dispute, nothing harmful, just his usual protectiveness kicking in, he finally agreed to let you go alone, seeing as it was ‘only over there’ you’d whined. you were a big girl, you could do things by yourself.

and you did, and yet, you’d come back sniffling. “hey—hey! c’mere, what’s wrong?” rafe almost shouted, heart beating at the sight of you, mascara smeared around your under eyes, nose red from running. shaking your head, you snuggled into his chest, desperately avoiding his prying gaze, yet only managed to draw more attention. “use your words alright? can’t help if i don’t know what’s going on kid” he sighed, pulling you from his chest and taking your chin in his hand.

“c-called me a stuck up bitch” you spluttered, struggling to catch your breath while rafe’s caught in his throat. it was like a switch, something going off in his mind as the words left your mouth. “who? tell me who angel”

“jj— he stopped me at the drinks bar”

“maybank, course it was fuckin’ maybank” he muttered, hands squeezing your face scarily tight, causing you to wince. “shit, m’sorry kid” he hummed, pressing a hard kiss to your chin before standing up, placing you in his warmed seat. “top— c’mon man, kelce— you keep an eye on her, alright?” he instructed, eyes avoiding your tearful gaze, not wanting your sweet little pout to distract him from what was about to go down.

“no—no rafe! please, jus’ sit with me, s’fine” you cried out, reaching for his arm as he began pulling away. turning back round, he knelt to your level— taking your face between his palms.

“listen angel, i love you— i really do, and that’s why he can’t get away with this, m’kay?”

[faebled-stories]

Restless Desires

Kinkvember Day 5: In Heat

IVE's Kim Jiwon (Liz) x Gender Neutral reader

6.8k words

A delicate warmth brushes Liz's face, coaxing her out of sleep. She shifts beneath the sheets, feeling their softness around her like a lingering embrace. Her eyelids flutter open, and the blurred outlines of her room slowly sharpen as she blinks away the last dregs of sleep. Gentle light filters through the curtains, painting her bed in golden shades, almost as if she’s emerged into a new, tender world. With a slow breath, she senses the quiet hum of morning—the soft ticking of the clock, the faint rustle of the sheets, and the subtle, irresistible pull of something stirring within her.

Heat begins to stir low in her belly, a subtle spark that soon spreads like molten fire through her veins. Liz groans softly, a sound of half-hearted resistance mingled with surrender, as she tries to ignore the steady throb between her thighs. Not today, she thinks, rolling over and pulling the covers tighter around her, seeking comfort in her nest of warmth. But the sensation persists, creeping back with greater urgency, like an uninvited guest refusing to leave. Her skin tingles, her breaths quickening, as the fire inside her intensifies, insistent and unyielding—a force that refuses to be denied.

Frustration flickers in Liz's chest, a tiny ember amidst the growing blaze of her desire. She doesn’t want to start the day like this—needy, desperate for something only you can give her. The thought of your touch, the memory of your skin against hers, and the way a single look from you can ignite her longing make the ache impossible to ignore. Her fingers slide beneath the sheets, grazing over bare skin, tracing the contours of her body as if mapping uncharted territory. Even the lightest touch sends a ripple of pleasure through her—a shockwave that promises more but still isn’t enough. It’s like standing on the edge of a precipice, feeling the thrill of the fall without ever taking the leap.

This is ridiculous, she scolds herself, the inner voice a stern reminder amidst the clamoring of her body. It’s too early to feel so worked up. But as her fingers moved lower, skimming the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, a soft gasp escaped her lips. Her body hums, alive with desire, every nerve ending screaming for release. Yet no matter how hard she tries, the relief she craves is always just out of reach, a mirage dancing on the horizon, taunting her with its elusiveness.

After several minutes of futile attempts, Liz groans in frustration and throws the covers aside, the cool air of the room clashing with the heat burning inside her. She stomps into the bathroom and splashes cold water on her face, hoping the shock of it will douse the flames consuming her. But as she stares at her flushed reflection, droplets of water clinging to her cheeks, she knows the day has already been defined by the current of desire coursing through her. It’s a force too strong to be quelled by cold water or willpower. This part of her—a wild, untamed longing—yearns for connection, for the touch only you can provide.

Liz steps into the shower, letting the hot water stream over her skin, the heat a strange comfort that matches the fire pulsing beneath her surface. The steam wraps around her, blending with the tension she carries, momentarily giving her the illusion of release. But as the minutes pass, it becomes clear that no amount of scalding water can wash away the ache smoldering inside. Shutting off the stream, she wraps herself in a towel, droplets trailing like tiny reminders of her unrelieved need.

Accepting the truth that pulses within her, Liz acknowledges that the only way to find peace is to embrace the fire, to surrender to the longing that refuses to subside. Determined, she resolves to seek you out, knowing that only you hold the key to quenching the thirst burning inside her. After drying off, she pulls on simple undergarments, the fabric cool against her still-warm skin. She throws on an oversized sweater in an attempt to shield herself from the world, but the soft, loose fabric feels irritating against her heated body. Her shorts, normally a comfortable fit, now feel restrictive, a teasing reminder of the tension coiling within her. Even as she steps into the kitchen, Liz’s frustration has only deepened.

In the gentle calm of the kitchen, you sit at the table, fingers flying across your laptop keyboard. You looked focused, so absorbed in your work, and the sight sent a jolt through Liz, intensifying the throbbing between her legs. She bites her lip, momentarily stunned by the image of you deep in concentration, while her body vibrates with a need that makes it impossible to think of anything else.

“Morning,” she calls softly, attempting a casual tone.

You glance up, offering a warm smile. “Morning my love, how was your sleep?,” you reply before returning your focus to the screen, oblivious to the storm brewing within her.

With a hard gulp and her heart pounding as Liz crosses the room in quick strides. She leans down, planting a soft kiss on your lips, intending it as a brief touch of affection. But the instant her lips meet yours, the fire blazing inside her flares to life, overtaking any sense of restraint. The kiss deepens almost instinctively, her body pressing against yours, her fingers trembling as they cling to your shirt.

A soft, involuntary whimper escapes her, and she feels the tension in her own body shiver into the kiss. She needs this, needs you, the way a parched desert thirsts for rain. Every inch of her skin feels electrified, hyper-aware of your closeness, her pulse racing to match the quickening rhythm of her breath.

You pull back slightly, surprised, your eyes searching hers. “Baby? What—”

But she doesn’t let you finish. Driven by a hunger too strong to ignore, she grabs the front of your shirt with both hands and pulls you back, crashing her lips into yours with a fierce, undeniable need. Her fingers twist in the fabric, knuckles whitening as she clings to you, anchoring herself against the tidal wave of longing rising within her. The kiss is no longer gentle—it’s a desperate claim, a silent plea that her words can’t convey. Her mouth moves against yours insistently, each press of her lips more urgent than the last, her breath mingling with yours as she leans in, seeking every ounce of connection she can steal from this moment.

Her body seems to mold itself to yours, her hands slipping up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer as though afraid of the slightest distance. Her pulse hammers in her veins, each beat fueling the fire burning brighter inside her, making it impossible to hold back. She pours every bit of her yearning into that kiss, the soft brush of her lips transforming into something raw and consuming, a desperation she can’t disguise or suppress.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathless, and Liz’s face is flushed, her pupils wide with desire. She grins, heart pounding a wild rhythm that mirrors the frantic beat of her pulse. "Just... a good morning kiss," she teases, though her voice is husky, barely above a whisper, betraying the intensity of her desire.

You chuckle, shaking your head with a look of endearing exasperation. “Right... Maybe you should let me get back to work?”

Liz steps back, the fire inside her roaring even hotter at your words. She isn’t done—not even close. The kiss has only stoked the flames, and the tension in her body is becoming unbearable. She needs more, much more than a mere kiss.

As she busies herself preparing breakfast, Liz keeps glancing over at you. The sight of you working, which usually brings her comfort, now fills her with irritation. Is their work really that important? she wonders, feeling the heat twist in her stomach. Or are they just ignoring me? The thought fuels a potent mix of frustration and anticipation.

In a bold move, she leans over the counter, letting the sweater slip down her shoulder, exposing more skin than necessary. “Hey,” she calls, keeping her tone light and playful. “Do you think it’s normal to feel… really warm down there?”

You glance up, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. “Warm? Like a fever?”

Liz chuckles, her heart racing with the thrill of her own audacity. “No, not like that... just... you know, hot.” She lets the words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

Your expression is confused, and it only stokes her impatience. “Maybe it’s the weather,” you offer, looking back at your screen. “Should I open a window?”

Liz sighs, rolling her eyes as she turns back to the stove. Seriously? she thinks, already conjuring up a dozen ways to make you understand the heat she wants to share. The day is still young, and Liz is determined that the fire within her will not be doused by misunderstanding or indifference. Today, she’ll make sure you feel the heat, too.

After a cozy breakfast shared in the warm glow of morning light, Liz feels a familiar itch for a bit of fun. The soft clicks of your keyboard punctuate the quiet kitchen, your concentration clearly unbroken by her hints at distraction. She smiles to herself, deciding it’s time to turn things up a notch.

With a mischievous glint in her eye, Liz unlocked her phone and scrolled through her carefully curated playlist until she found one of your favorite songs—an upbeat, toe-tapping melody known to get even the most stoic souls moving. As the lively tune filled the kitchen, she swayed her hips, casting a playful glance over her shoulder in your direction.

“Come on, you love this song!” she teased, her voice bubbling with infectious enthusiasm. She exaggerated her movements, swishing her hips dramatically as if inviting you to join her in a spontaneous dance. “Dance with me!”

You glanced up, offering a brief smile at her playful energy before your eyes returned to the screen. “I would love to, but I really need to finish this…” you replied, your tone laced with apology but unwavering in focus.

Undeterred, Liz spun on her toes, her hair fanning out as she twirled closer to you. “Oh, come on!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in mock exasperation. “Just one dance. You know you can’t resist me!”

A soft chuckle slipped from you, clearly entertained by her antics, but your fingers resumed their quick tapping across the keyboard. “I really need to get this done,” you insisted, your focus still intact.

With an exaggerated huff, Liz threw her hands in the air, her eyes sparkling with renewed determination. She realized subtlety wasn’t going to work this time; she needed a different approach. So, with a sly smile, she scrolled through her phone again, selecting a slower, sultry track that filled the kitchen with a deep, sensual beat. She began moving to the rhythm, rolling her hips in a way she knew would be impossible for you to ignore.

The shift in tempo did not go unnoticed. Your fingers stilled momentarily, and your gaze lifted, following the hypnotic sway of her body. Liz noticed the flicker of interest in your eyes and smirked inwardly. Gotcha, her confidence started to build.

“What's more important, your work or me?” she whispered, stepping closer until her chest is pressed against your back. “Come on, just give in, I can see it in your eyes.” Her breath was warm on your ear, her voice dipping into a tone that sent a shiver down your spine.

Without waiting for a response, she leaned in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss just below your ear, where she knew you liked. Her lips traced down the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, as if savoring every inch of skin. Her kisses were soft at first, feather-light, each one coaxing you to lose a little more focus.

As she reached the side of your neck, her hands slid up and tangled into your hair, her fingers curling with just enough pressure to make you look up from your work. She tugged gently, pulling you closer as she kissed the spot just above your collarbone, her lips pressing in deeper, each kiss warmer and more possessive than the last. She could feel the faintest hitch in your breath as her lips moved, her mouth leaving a trail of warmth in her wake. The sensation was dizzying, and every brush of her lips seemed to spark a little more heat between you, making it impossible to ignore her any longer.

One hand drifted from your hair to your shoulder, her fingertips brushing slowly down your arm before trailing back up, her touch deliberate and teasing. Her lips hovered at the nape of your neck, grazing softly as she whispered, “Can you please give me attention?” Her voice was a gentle plea wrapped in a sultry tease, her breath hot against your skin.

Her hands tightened slightly in your hair as her lips continued their trail, her kisses deepening as she left small, possessive marks—soft, warm reminders of her presence that lingered even after her lips moved. She pressed herself closer, the rhythm of the song matching the slow, deliberate beat of her heart. Her voice softened, and you could feel her smirk against your skin, an invitation that left little choice but to surrender to the pull of her touch.

Your resolve wavered as you glanced at her, but with a quick shake of your head, you refocused on your work. “Honey, I promise after I'm done, I'll give you all the attention you need, okay?”

Her lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, the disappointment was almost comically dramatic. But she wasn’t ready to concede defeat. Instead, with a quick, determined stride, Liz slipped out of the kitchen and darted to your shared bedroom. She rummaged through the drawer, grabbing a fresh set of lacy undergarments, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she hid them behind her back. She returned to the kitchen, concealing the change of clothes with an innocent smile.

Rejoining you, Liz picked up a glass of water, a glint of mischief in her eye. She positioned herself close to you, pretending to take a casual sip, then with an exaggerated gasp and a theatrical tilt, she "accidentally" spilled the water down the front of her sweater and shorts, the cold splash soaking through the fabric and clinging to her curves beneath.

She let out a playful, shocked gasp, looking down at herself with wide eyes. “Oops!” she exclaimed, feigning innocence as she looked up at you, her eyes shining with mischief. “Looks like I made a mess…”

You looked up, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. “Really?” you began, trying to keep your tone stern, but your amusement betrayed you.

Without missing a beat, Liz shrugged, flashing you a devilish smile as she reached for the hem of her soaked sweater. With an agonizing slowness, she pulled it off, letting the damp fabric slip over her shoulders and fall to the floor, leaving her in her wet shorts and a cute pink bra that hugged her so well. She shot you a glance, watching as your gaze lingered.

But she wasn’t done. Her fingers hooked under the waistband of her shorts, and with a teasing glance in your direction, she slid them down her hips, letting the fabric fall to the floor and leaving her in the matching soaked underwear. The damp material clung to her skin, accentuating every curve and had become almost see-through, revealing the soft contours beneath. It molded to her body, tracing every line and dip with delicate precision, hinting at the natural line between her legs. A small smile played on her lips as she noticed the faint shift in your expression, a silent acknowledgment of the effect she had on you.

She took a slow step forward, lifting her chin defiantly. “You sure you don’t want to help me out now?” she teased, raising an eyebrow as she tugged at the strap of her bra.

Your gaze followed the movement, and you chuckled, shaking your head even as your resolve began to waver. “You’re going to have to try harder than that,” you replied, though your tone softened, hinting at how close you were to giving in.

“Oh, I plan to,” she murmured, her voice a sultry whisper as she drew nearer. Her hands slipped behind her back, fingers deftly locating the clasp of her bra. In one smooth motion, she unhooked it, allowing the fabric to glide down her arms and pool at her feet, revealing her bare chest. Her eyes locked onto yours, challenging you to look away. But you couldn’t; your gaze lingered, tracing the contours of her form.

Then, with deliberate slowness, she turned around, her back to you as her hands slipped down to the waistband of her panties. She bent over slightly, just enough to give you a full, tantalizing view, as she peeled the wet fabric down her hips and thighs, letting it drop to her feet. Every movement was slow and intentional, and the sight left you speechless, torn between finishing your work and giving in.

Straightening up, she faced you once more, her cheeks slightly flushed but her eyes filled with confidence. Without a word, she reached for the fresh set of undergarments she had hidden, slipping into them as you watched, completely captivated.

Her lips curled into a sly smile as she met your gaze again. “Now… will you touch me?” she asked, her voice a soft plea wrapped in a sultry tease, her tone breaking the last of your resolve.

You chuckled, shaking your head with a hint of feigned restraint. “Later, I promise. If I don't finish this then I won’t have a job—and then I won’t be able to get you all those things you keep hinting about.” Your tone was steady, but your gaze betrayed you as it traced all over her body, revealing just how much of a struggle it was to stay focused.

Liz let out an exaggerated, melodramatic groan, her hands falling to her hips in mock defeat. “Fine, fine. Later, that's what you always say,” she said, pouting as she reluctantly stepped back, throwing you one last, imploring look.

Just then, your phone buzzed on the table, its insistent vibration shattering the playful silence. You stood up to answer, frustration flashing across your face as you paced back and forth, absorbed in the terse conversation. As you talked, Liz watched you, her own impatience simmering. The wait stretched on unbearably, her need for you now pulsing with an almost comical level of urgency. She could feel her determination solidifying.

Without uttering a single word, she rose from her seat, her movements fluid yet purposeful. She slipped into the sanctuary of the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. The coolness of the tiles against her back was a contrast to the feverish heat that radiated from within. Leaning against the wall, she released a shaky breath, the ache between her thighs a relentless, pulsating demand for attention.

Her hands, trembling slightly with pent-up desire, began a slow descent down her body. They traced the contours of her hips, the familiar terrain now electrified with heightened sensitivity. Dipping between her legs, her fingers tentatively explored the heat that beckoned them. Her breath hitched as she grazed her sensitive skin, a jolt of pleasure coursing through her, but it was fleeting, a mere whisper of what she truly yearned for.

She pressed her fingers more firmly against herself, attempting to mimic the touch she so desperately needed from you. Her heart pounded in her chest, a staccato rhythm that matched the increasing tempo of her own hand. The tension within her coiled ever more tightly, each desperate stroke fueling the fire that threatened to consume her.

Yet, despite her best efforts, the release she sought remained maddeningly out of reach. Her self-administered caresses, though fervent, were a hollow imitation of the passion she craved. A soft desperate whimper escaped her lips, her head falling back against the unyielding wall as her body trembled with unmet need. Her fingers moved with increasing urgency, her breath quickening to short, sharp gasps, but the elusive wave of pleasure she sought continued to elude her, taunting her with its proximity.

"Come on… please…" she begged into the empty room, her voice a tremulous blend of desperation and frustration. She increased the pressure, her hips undulating against her own hand, but the crescendo she so desperately sought remained just beyond her grasp. Her fingers, now slick with her own arousal, were simply not enough to quell the storm within her.

Defeated, she withdrew her hand, her body still throbbing with an unsatisfied longing. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and a solitary tear of frustration tracked down her cheek. The realization hit her with a profound clarity: she needed you. Only you could extinguish the flame that raged unabated inside her.

Liz composed herself, the cool air of the bathroom doing little to temper the inferno that burned within. She emerged from the bathroom, her gaze immediately drawn to you. You sat at the table, the picture of calm repose after your phone call, contrasting to the turmoil that racked her. Without hesitation, she sprinted across the room, her need for you a palpable force that propelled her forward. She climbed onto your lap, her body pressing against yours, her desperation an unmistakable presence between you.

"I don't care about your work," she whispered, her voice raw with the remnants of her frustrated attempts at satisfaction. "I tried, but it's not enough. I need you."

The words hung in the air, raw and vulnerable, thickening the tension between you. She inched closer, the anticipation building with each heartbeat. Her breaths were shallow, her cheeks flushed, and when she lifted her hand toward your face, her intentions were unmistakable.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she brought them to your eyes, and you noticed the glistening sheen—a subtle but unmistakable sign of her arousal. The warmth radiating from her touch spoke volumes, the scent and sight of her desire making the air around you almost electric.

Slowly, she then slid her fingers past your lips, and you couldn’t suppress the soft gasp that escaped as the taste and warmth of her skin flooded your senses. The feel of her wet fingers against your tongue sent an electric pulse through you, one that lingered, intense and undeniable. Your eyelids fluttered closed, your breath hitching as you surrendered to the sensory overload she was offering.

Her fingers moved slowly, exploring the warmth of your mouth as if savoring every second. She traced the curve of your tongue, brushing lightly against the smoothness of your palate, each touch slow and deliberate, leaving a lingering warmth that was impossible to ignore. You felt her breath, hot and close, mingling with yours as her fingers coaxed a fire that echoed the rising tension between you. Your heart raced, each beat syncing with the throb of need that simmered just beneath the surface.

The heat in her core, which had moments ago felt unbearable, now flared into an intense blaze. With each passing moment, as her fingers remained enveloped in the warmth of your mouth, she could feel herself becoming more and more aroused. The wetness between her legs grew, a physical testament to her body's readiness. A soft moan escaped her lips as she imagined the culmination of their shared desire, the anticipation of what was to come next a sweet torture that promised to finally douse the unquenchable fire within.

Your eyes widened, reflecting a cocktail of surprise and mounting passion as Liz, with a fiery determination, began to move against you. Her hips swayed with an initial languidness, a slow burn that was quickly stoked into an intense flame. Each roll of her body was a word in an unspoken language, a plea for connection that was both physical and profoundly emotional.

Her lips, soft and insistent, blazed a trail down the column of your neck, marking you with the fervent passion of her need. The love bite she left just below your ear was a brand, a claim of intimacy that sent shivers down your spine. “Keep working for all I care, just let me use you.” she whispered, her voice a tremulous testament to her desperation. Her sentence trailed off into a moan as her hips found a rhythm that spoke of her urgency.

Liz’s body was a conduit of yearning, each movement an expression of her deep-seated desire. Her need was palpable, a force that seemed to vibrate through the very air around you. Your hands, initially steadying, now clung to her waist with an intensity that mirrored her own. Your breaths were short, sharp bursts of air as you wrestled with your own surging need, striving to maintain a semblance of control in the face of her unbridled passion.

But Liz, lost in the throes of her own longing, was beyond the point of patience. Her lips returned to your neck, leaving another love bite, a twin to the first, as she ground against you with increasing fervor. “Ugh forget what I said. Please help me out!” she whimpered, her voice cracking under the weight of her need. “I can’t take it anymore.”

It was the raw vulnerability in her voice that finally pierced your resolve. Your hands, now firm and decisive, gripped her hips, not to pull her closer but to lift her gently off your lap. You guided her toward the bed, a sanctuary where you could lavish upon her the care and attention she so desperately craved. Liz blinked in momentary confusion, her body still pulsing with unfulfilled desire. She had been so close to the edge, so ready to tumble over it with you.

“Okay” you murmured softly, your voice a soothing balm against her flushed skin as you cupped her cheek. Your thumb traced a gentle path across her heated flesh, a silent promise of the tenderness to come. “I didn't know it was this bad, I'm sorry for making you wait.” Your lips found hers in a kiss that was both a reassurance and a reawakening of her senses. “But I want to take care of you properly. This is all about you, baby.”

Liz’s breath hitched, her body quivering with a mixture of anticipation and a newfound sense of being cherished. As you guided her down onto the bed, your hands moved with a reverence that made her heart flutter. Each touch, each caress, was a testament to your desire to please her, to explore the depths of her need and satisfy it in a way that was as much about connection as it was about physical release.

Your lips continued their journey, leaving a trail of soft, deliberate kisses down her neck. You took your time, savoring the moment, as you kissed across her collarbone with a tenderness that made her feel both vulnerable and exquisitely seen. With gentle care, you unclasped her bra, revealing the stiff nubs breasts, the raw truth of her desire. Liz’s skin prickled under your touch, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she surrendered to the waves of anticipation that coursed through her.

In the quiet of the room, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you—a tangle of limbs and a tapestry of whispered yearnings. Your every move was deliberate, a dance of devotion that promised to worship every inch of her being. Liz felt overwhelmed, not just by the sensations that threatened to consume her, but by the depth of emotion that shone in your eyes. In this sacred space, she was not just a body to be claimed, but a soul to be revered.

As your lips continued their tender exploration, each kiss a vow of adoration, Liz surrendered to the exquisite surrender, knowing that in your capable hands, she would find not just the release she craved, but the connection she had been yearning for all along.

“I’ve got you, baby,” you whispered against her skin, kissing lower as your hands gently pressed against her thighs to ease them apart. “Let me take care of you.”

Liz whimpered softly, her fingers gripping the sheets as your lips grazed her inner thighs, teasing her with featherlight kisses. The anticipation was excruciating, the fire between her legs almost unbearable now. “Please,” she gasped, her hips shifting under your touch. “Please hurry up. I can’t wait…”

You looked up, eyes dark with intent but softened with affection. “I know, honey,” you murmured, voice soothing. “You don’t have to wait anymore.”

Slowly, you hooked your fingers around the waistband of her panties, slipping them down her thighs. As you pulled the fabric away, a glistening line of arousal connected it to her core, a raw, intimate sign of her need that sent a fresh wave of desire surging through you.

With that, you lowered your mouth to her most intimate area, beginning a slow, deliberate journey with your tongue that drew a sharp gasp from her lips. Liz's back arched off the bed as the first wave of intense pleasure washed over her, your name falling from her lips in a soft, breathless plea.

You savored every moment, taking in the taste and warmth of her, feeling the desperation in every tremor of her body. Your tongue moved with deliberate purpose, tracing slow, languid circles around her most sensitive spot before pressing in, tasting the raw sweetness of her arousal. The slight tang lingered on your tongue, a heady reminder of how close she was to unraveling.

With each flick and caress, you explored her rhythm, sensing exactly where to tease and where to soothe. You took her clit between your lips, sucking softly at first, then with increasing pressure, drawing a deep moan from her that resonated through your chest. Her hips arched instinctively, pressing against your mouth, silently begging for more. The slow, sensual rhythm built her higher and higher, and you felt her thighs begin to tremble on either side of you.

Liz’s hands fisted the sheets, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you intensified your pace. You could feel her holding back, teetering on the edge, her body taut and eager beneath you as your tongue worked her into a state of pure need. She had waited so long for this, imagined your touch from the moment she woke, and now, here you were, driving her wild with bliss.

“Please,” she whimpered, her voice a desperate plea. Her fingers found their way to your hair, tangling in it as she clung to you, her body quivering. “Don’t stop… Oh God, please don’t stop.”

You lifted your head just enough to murmur against her skin, the hum of your voice sending a shiver through her core. “I won’t, baby,” you whispered, lips brushing her, each word thick with intent. “I’m going to make you feel so good.”

Her soft cries grew louder as you continued, your tongue stroking over her, slow and unrelenting, each motion sparking new jolts of pleasure that left her gasping and releasing another desperate moan from her lips. Liz’s body arched sharply, her thighs tightening around you as the pressure intensified.

“Oh my…” she gasped, voice catching in her throat, her breath shallow and ragged. “I’m so close…”

“Go ahead, baby,” you murmured, your breath hot against her skin. “Cum for me.”

The words combined with a deep flick of your tongue, were all she needed. Her release crashed over her, consuming her in waves. Liz cried out, her body trembling violently, thighs quivering uncontrollably as the orgasm took hold. Her hands clenched the back of your head, pulling you impossibly close as her head threw back, each moan spilling from her lips a testament to the ecstasy you’d pulled her into.

But you didn’t stop. Your mouth remained on her, relentless and devoted, your tongue and lips letting her ride out every last bit of her orgasm. When her thighs started to press together, instinctively seeking some escape from the intensity, you hooked both hands between her legs, prying her open with gentle but steady pressure. Your fingers dug softly into the flesh of her inner thighs, holding her in place, ensuring she stayed completely vulnerable to every flick of your tongue.

Liz whimpered, her hips squirming under your firm hold, her body entirely exposed to your touch, with nowhere to hide from the sensations that were building within her. She tried to twist away, overwhelmed by the pleasure, but your hands kept her steady, her every movement restrained in the soft grasp of your fingers.

“I can’t… please… it’s too much…” she moaned, her hands weakly gripping your head, but even then, she knew the warm feeling in her core was still lingering. “Okay, maybe just one more.” She weakly let out, contradicting her own words.

The sensation between her legs was nearly unbearable, her breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps as your mouth moved over her, slow and torturous, each flick of your tongue igniting another spark of sensation. You let your lips close over her sensitive clit again, sucking softly, then firm enough to tug on the nub, until her body responded with a shuddering moan that sent a thrill through your being.

You let your mouth bring her closer and closer, feeling the growing tension in her thighs and the way her breathing became ragged. You stayed focused, your tongue moving with purpose, keeping her right on the edge.

“Oh… oh, please…” she gasped, her voice quivering as you increased the pressure, holding her open and vulnerable as her release built quickly, the intensity almost too much to bear.

With a particular lick, your tongue curved deep inside her, pressing against her walls as it moved, then you brought it back flicking over her clit repeatedly. She cried out, her body going rigid as the climax surged through her. Her toes curled, and her thighs trembled in your firm grasp, but you held her open, feeling the waves of pleasure pulse through her. Her juices enveloped your mouth as she shook uncontrollably, her hands gripping the sheets, breathless from the overwhelming bliss that crashed over her again and again. “Oh God… fuck! I-I’m cumming!” she cried, her voice breaking as her body convulsed beneath you, every nerve alight with intensity. The sensation was so powerful it left her undone, each convulsive tremor a testament to the pleasure coursing through her, leaving her utterly spent, yet deeply fulfilled.

You slowed your movements, letting your tongue soften as you felt the warmth of her release, helping her ride out the final waves of pleasure. Leaning in, you pressed gentle, reverent kisses along her pulsing, trembling folds, each one soft and deliberate, as if sealing in the pleasure that still coursed through her. With each kiss, you felt the last traces of her climax gradually ease, her body quivering under your touch.

When you finally pulled back, Liz collapsed onto the bed, her body still trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She was completely spent, her mind foggy with exhaustion and the overwhelming afterglow of multiple orgasms.

You crawled up beside her, pressing soft kisses along her stomach, then moving to her chest, and finally finding her lips. The kiss was slow, tender, and filled with love. Liz melted into it, tasting herself on your lips, her body still shaking from the aftershocks. Yet amid that tremble was a warmth in her chest—a feeling of being so completely cherished that it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

“You’re so cute,” you whispered against her lips, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Liz murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her body felt heavy, exhausted from the overwhelming pleasure, and she could feel the exhaustion pulling at her.

You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Take a nap baby, I’ve got you.”

Liz’s eyelids fluttered shut, her body relaxing completely into the bed. The last thing she felt was the warmth of your lips pressing a final kiss to her forehead before she drifted off into a deep, contented sleep. You bent down and pressed a delicate kiss to her forehead, your lips lingering there as you whispered, “Sleep well, my love.”

Carefully, you tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, making sure she was wrapped up securely, bundled in a loving warmth. You gently ran your hand over the curve of her waist, the lightest of touches, before pulling the blanket higher up around her neck, ensuring that no part of her would feel cold. It was as if you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting her to be as comfortable and protected as possible.

“You’re adorable,” you murmured softly, smiling as you leaned in to kiss her again, pressing your lips softly to the top of her head. “How did I get so lucky?”

Liz let out a soft, sleepy hum, shifting slightly under the blanket, but she remained blissfully asleep. Your heart fluttered at the sound, and you stood slowly, your movements quiet and gentle as you finally tore yourself away, knowing she was completely at ease.

With a reluctant sigh, you walked back to the kitchen, settling in front of your laptop once again. But after just a few minutes, your thoughts kept drifting back to Liz, still peacefully asleep just a room away. Every few moments, you glanced in her direction, your focus slipping from your work.

Why not work there? you thought.

After all, you could bring the laptop into the bedroom and be close to her while she slept. Quietly, you stood, gathering your laptop and slipping into the bedroom. There was a small table and chair near the window, just perfect for setting up your workstation. You set the laptop down carefully, keeping the light low to avoid disturbing Liz, and settled into the chair.

Now, from your spot, you could watch Liz sleep while you worked—something that made your heart feel a little fuller.

As you worked, you kept stealing soft glances at her, your heart warming every time you saw her peacefully tucked under the covers, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. You smiled to yourself, feeling a sense of comfort knowing you were nearby in case she needed you.

If I finish quickly… your fingers tapping efficiently at the keys.

Determined to wrap up your work, you focused more than you had all day, your motivation clear. You wanted nothing more than to slide back into bed beside Liz and hold her close.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you finished your last task. A quiet sigh of relief escaped your lips as you closed the laptop, your eyes immediately drifting back to the bed. With a content smile, you stood and tiptoed to the bed, careful not to wake her.

The moment you slipped under the covers beside her, Liz instinctively stirred, her body reacting to your presence even in sleep. Without waking, she shifted closer, wrapping her whole body around you. Her leg draped over yours, her arms encircling your waist, and she pressed her face against your neck, letting out a soft, contented sigh as she snuggled into you, as if she had been waiting for you to return all along.

Your heart swelled as you wrapped your arms around her, pulling her in even closer. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, your fingers gently stroking her back as she relaxed fully against you.

“There you are,” you whispered softly, your voice full of warmth and affection. “I missed you too, baby.”

Liz responded with a sleepy hum, her grip on you tightening just a little, her breathing slow and steady. Even in her dreams, she clung to you, her body instinctively seeking the comfort of your embrace. You smiled down at her, your chest filling with a deep sense of love and contentment. She fit so perfectly against you, as though you were two pieces meant to come together.

You settled into the pillow, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing against you. You weren’t at all sleepy, but you lay there with a smile, reveling in the warmth of being so close to her. The gentle rhythm of her breathing was comforting, and as you watched her peaceful face, you felt a wave of happiness wash over you. In that moment, everything felt perfect, and you couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. Wrapped up in each other, with the soft glow of the lights circling around you, everything was as it should be.

[bellfilmz]

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: rafe x Female reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After surviving a plane crash with a mysterious stranger she met mid-flight, she now has to find a way to survive, completely unaware she’s stuck with Rafe Cameron.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

⸻

Day 2.

The island was too quiet in the morning.

You woke up to the sound of birds and waves crashing softly in the distance. The fire had burned low in the night, just faint embers now.

Rafe wasn’t beside you.

Panic set in instantly.

You shot upright, scanning the trees. “Rafe?”

No answer.

Your heart picked up, but just before you could spiral, a voice called out from the woods.

“Chill—I’m here.”

Rafe stepped out from the trees shirtless, damp from what you assumed was a swim, holding two coconuts and what looked like a half-smashed protein bar from a suitcase stash.

“I thought you disappeared,” you said, trying to slow your breathing.

He raised an eyebrow. “Kinda hard to ghost someone when we’re literally stuck on a rock.”

You gave a weak laugh.

He tossed you the protein bar and knelt by the embers, poking them to life. You watched the way his shoulders moved, the muscle under sun-kissed skin. He’d tied his hair back with a string he probably ripped off a bag. There were tiny cuts along his ribs from wreckage. He didn’t seem to care.

“Figured we’d need food,” he said.

You stared at the coconut. “What, no island espresso?”

He grinned. “Nah, but I’ll get to that after I invent fire.”

“You already did invent fire.”

“I stole fire. From the gods,” he deadpanned.

You cracked a smile. “Okay, Prometheus.”

⸻

Later.

You walked inland together to look for more wreckage. There were scraps of metal, broken cases, and clothes stuck in trees like twisted decorations.

“Still no other survivors?” you asked.

Rafe shook his head. “Just luggage.”

You stopped to breathe. “I keep thinking someone’s gonna find us any second.”

“Me too,” he admitted. “But the plane veered way off-course. Could be days. Weeks.”

The thought made your stomach twist.

“We won’t die out here,” he added firmly. “I won’t let that happen.”

You looked at him, surprised by the sudden heat in his voice.

“Why do you care so much?” you asked quietly.

He hesitated. “Because I don’t want to be alone out here.”

Something about the way he said it sounded more personal than situational.

⸻

The heat was brutal. You both sat waist-deep in the lagoon, letting the cool water take some of the sting off.

“Wanna play twenty questions?” you asked suddenly, trying to distract yourself.

He raised a brow. “That’s a little middle school, no?”

You shrugged. “You got anything better to do?”

He smirked. “Fair. You start.”

“Alright. What’s your full name?”

He looked at you warily. “That’s question one?”

“Yup.”

He sighed. “Rafe Cameron.”

You blinked. “Wait… Cameron?”

He paused. “Yeah. That mean something to you?”

You frowned, trying to place it. The name did sound familiar.

“I feel like I’ve heard that before,” you said. “Weird.”

He just shrugged. “Probably nothing.”

He didn’t elaborate.

⸻

The second night felt colder somehow. Maybe it was the creeping reality of it all setting in.

You sat by the fire again, this time wrapped in a hoodie you’d salvaged from a suitcase. Rafe was lying back in the sand, arms behind his head, staring up at the stars.

You glanced at him. “You really think no one else made it?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “I think if they did, they’d be here by now.”

You nodded slowly. “I just… can’t stop wondering if anyone’s looking.”

“They are,” he said with more certainty than he probably had. “Someone always is.”

You looked at the side of his face. “You’ve been through something like this before?”

“No,” he muttered. “But I’ve felt alone before. Doesn’t always take a crash.”

The weight in his voice startled you. Rafe Cameron, this cocky stranger with a sarcastic streak, was more cracked than he let on.

You scooted a little closer. Just enough that your knees brushed.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You’re not alone now.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. And for a second, his expression softened.

“I know.”

⸻

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

Tags: @persiar9 @namelesslosers @sublimepenguinpeach-blog